Sightless Affection
by Nutter101
Summary: What was so intriguing about Dinah Snape? Harry could only speculate. Sirius/Fem!Severus
1. The First Meeting

**A/N: Hello, everybody. Long time/no fic. The last two years I've had an awful case of Writer's Block, but I'm back (sort of) and hope it doesn't happen again.**

 **I come to you all with a new fic, as you can most probably gather.**

 **This fic features Sirius paired with a female Severus Snape (and how she may or may not differ from Canon Severus. For the purpose of this fic the two had a son in their youth, hence the presence of such a character appearing in this chapter. More on the history later.)**

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 **Chapter One: The First Meeting**

A large man, with an equally-large moustache proportionate to his stature, all but dragged his family through the hotel door. Somehow he had to put a stop to all those letters that kept popping up in the toaster or every single egg that his wife had bought. In comparison to the sheer quantity that were consistently flying through the letterbox, however, the former was nothing.

"Gotta shake 'em off," he mumbled, with a shudder. "Gotta shake 'em off."

Petunia Dursley had never seen her husband so nervous in all her days. It was true that both she and her husband knew exactly what was going on; why all those letters were being sent in the first place, but they simply couldn't let such a thing happen. No, the boy could not be allowed to attend.

She recalled all those years ago when only one of those letters came in the post for her younger sister, Lily. It had been a letter inviting Lily to attend a school for witches and wizards, which the younger girl had been only too happy to attend and frequently returned home during the holidays with 'magic tricks,' as Petunia called them, wherein she would turn one thing into something else, or cause all laws of gravity to fail by lifting something high into the air without physically laying a hand on it and gently returning it to its original place.

Petunia had so wished to attend that school herself and even wrote a letter to the Headmaster requesting a place. Alas, she wasn't gifted with the art of magic like her sister was, which had only caused her resentment to grow.

Petunia had called Lily a 'freak,' though considering who her sister was friends with Lily herself paled in comparison when tarred with that particular insult.

Lily had met her best friend when she was nine years old, but Petunia resented the very ground she walked on. She was almost too weird for words. She didn't exactly look normal, in Petunia's mind. She was short with greasy black hair which hung limply to her waist, a complexion so pale she might almost have passed for a ghost, an incredibly plain (even ugly, in Petunia's view) face and clothes that looked 'positively awful.'

When Petunia didn't like something she would often dismiss it as 'positively awful.'

In fact, that girl herself was 'positively awful.' She changed Lily for the worse; even got her killed. If Lily had never befriended that rotten Dinah Snape then she'd still be alive and she almost certainly would never have attended that 'freak school.'

Breaking herself from her thoughts, Petunia focused on the main desk where a bellboy had just appeared to take their suitcases, which had been carried by a scrawny little boy with black hair and glasses from the car to the reception desk, to their rooms.

The 'scrawny little boy' was, in fact, Petunia's nephew. Yes, her sister had a son, only one month younger than her own, but Petunia loathed him just as much as she did magic, the headmaster of the magic school, the Snape girl and even her own sister.

As the family turned to follow the bellboy, her own son for once refraining from tormenting his cousin, though still complaining about having missed all his favourite television shows, Petunia's eyes fell on the one person she never expected to see and, quite frankly, never had any desire to see.

There, just entering the double doors leading through to the very modest hotel lounge, was the one and only ghostly Dinah Snape.

Petunia, not noticing the teenaged boy beside the woman, almost collapsed of shock at the mere sight of her. She fought for words but could only gasp.

It appeared as though the woman in question sensed Petunia's discomfort as she slowly turned around and looked her in the eye. Her own black eyes penetrated Petunia's blue and the latter was frozen with fear.

Dinah often had that effect. It didn't matter if you were man, woman or child, Dinah Snape, despite not looking particularly intimidating in general (at least not physically) could be likened to Medusa; freezing a person to the spot at the very sight of her.

The woman's dark eyes then focused on Petunia's family. Both her husband and her son were exceedingly large, she noted, before considering the small boy who stood off to the side appearing as though he wasn't part of the family at all.

Her expression softened slightly at the sight of the small boy with the glasses. Her eyes were rather intrigued by his mere presence.

The boy himself could feel her eyes on him, as he nervously shuffled his feet on the spot where he stood.

By this time, Petunia, it seemed, had found her voice, as she stammered a bit while announcing the woman "S-S-Snape…" In spite of losing the intimidation factor by fumbling over her words, her voice was nonetheless filled with hatred for the woman who stood before her.

Two sets of eyes fell on Petunia; one black, one grey. The grey belonged to Dinah's son, though the resemblance between the two was somewhat dissimilar.

The boy didn't look much like her at all. He was considerably taller than his mother, his thick hair curly rather than straight and his light eyes held a certain sparkle to them, a sparkle hers lacked.

"Petunia Evans, as I live and breathe," the dark-haired woman said, in a soft, low voice.

"Oh, you know her then?" The optimistic voice belonged to Dinah's son.

After a short pause, his mother responded. "Unfortunately." There was an undeniable tone of displeasure when speaking of, or to, this woman before her.

The small boy who hadn't moved from his spot near the reception desk studied the 'Snape' woman.

She had anything but a kind face, he noted, and wondered if she'd always been that way or if something had happened in her past. There were things that could change a person and Harry himself had often pondered how different he might have been had one or both of his parents survived; did his relatives change him?

"Dad, I want a room with a television!" This came from the large boy, who looked to be the same age as his cousin, though it was evident he was considerably more immature than the quiet boy who stood off to the side.

"Be quiet and hurry up," was the impatient demand from the boy's father as he stalked through the hallway door after the bellboy, knocking over a potted plant on his way. Still annoyed by the lack of visual amusement (having not watched television for six hours) the boy bounded after his father, his feet pounding en route.

Petunia followed, though not before sneering at the woman in her presence and turning her nose up, leaving only the boy with the black hair and green eyes in the foyer.

The boy was reluctant to follow and continued to focus his attention on the duo standing before him; the plain black-haired woman and the contented curly-haired teenager.

He saw something in the woman's eyes. Recognition? It was almost as if he'd encountered those eyes before. Perhaps he once dreamt of having seen them, though if he had they hadn't been quite so cold as they were now. For all he could recall they may have been fraught with emotion; pain, something of a strange speculation considering the hard-faced woman who currently stood before him.

"Harry!" the irritable female voice called to him from halfway down the corridor.

"Coming, Aunt Petunia," Harry called back, as he moved to follow his family to the room, his eyes never once leaving those of 'Snape,' as she had been announced by his relative.

Just the same, Dinah's eyes never left Harry's.

The remaining boy turned to his mother. "You know him as well?" he asked, inquisitively. For a teenage boy he was unusually observant, as he had witnessed the exchange in eye contact between the two.

She never responded to that, merely turned with sorrowful eyes, a far cry from what that family had just witnessed, and continued her journey into the lounge.


	2. The Letters in the Foyer

**A/N: This fic may move a bit slow and, obviously, a female Severus is quite different to the Canon fans either love or hate. There will be slight changes in history (even storyline, perhaps.)**

 **I'd be interested to know, however early on it may be, if people would wish for Sirius to have a short-lived appearance as we've witnessed in the books and on film or if he should survive. I'm always open to ideas and it's always interesting to have feedback.**

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 **Chapter Two: The Letters in the Foyer**

It had seemed a little strange that Dinah Snape and her son were staying at a hotel when they only lived half an hour's walk away. The boy had contemplated this unusual activity, but, then, he did know Albus Dumbledore (about as well as any other student did) and, while the elderly wizard was a little strange, Rigel was aware that Dumbledore only really did things in the best interests of another.

He also happened to know that Harry Potter, renowned as the 'Boy-Who-Lived' throughout the wizarding world, would be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in just a little over a month. Rigel wondered if perhaps Dumbledore had planned for his mother to keep an eye on the boy; assess his relatives, which would account for the current activity that made little sense in general.

It wasn't a fact universally acknowledged, but, as her son, Rigel Black did know certain things that so many wizards and witches didn't. His mother preferred to keep to herself; not to divulge anything if she could help it. She had learned at a young age that many things she said could, and no doubt would, be used against her. However, what she hadn't said he'd been able to figure out in his short thirteen years of life. He liked to call himself 'One of the Few,' in reference to the small number of people who knew who she really was. He did wonder sometimes if even he knew who his mother was, though.

When considering the somewhat negative exchange between his mother and the 'other woman…' ( _what was her name…? Petunia Evans…? Or was it Dursley now…?_ ) he had wondered how they knew each other and what had happened in the past to cause the hostility he witnessed. He had to admit the 'other woman' appeared rather haughty when she felt more confident striding through that doorway. Had she not stuck her nose in the air, scoffed and continued on her way? Why would anyone snub his mother? Come to think of it, he could think of many who would; most people were generally just scared of her.

He was brought from his musings at the sight of the family he'd seen yesterday, as they took their seats at a nearby table.

Out of the corner of his eye, once that 'other woman' had locked eyes with his mother, she sniffed in disgust and blocked her own view with the menu.

"I don't think she likes you much, Mum," he whispered.

"I don't think she likes me _very_ much," Dinah responded. "I don't much care for her presence myself, but I'm not here for her," she added, buttering some toast.

Rigel couldn't help but notice that his mother had focused her attention on the small boy with the glasses. He didn't look like the others. He wasn't big and bulky - well, for want of a better word, obese - like the other two males sitting at the table. His hair looked as though it hadn't been combed for several days; perhaps even a couple of weeks, and his clothes were entirely too large. It was almost as though the boy inherited whatever the larger one got too fat for.

He didn't much resemble the snooty woman who snubbed his mother either. Yes, that was fitting. From now on Petunia Dursley would forever be titled 'Snooty Woman Who Snubbed My Mother,' he decided.

Returning his attention to the boy, he once more spoke to his mother. "Is that him, Mum? Is that Harry Potter?"

With a long pause and a sad tone in her voice, Dinah uttered a plain "Yes."

"He doesn't eat much, does he?" Rigel observed, as he watched the boy he now knew to be Harry Potter himself nibbling on half a round of dry toast.

"I don't believe it's by choice," Dinah whispered. She hadn't intended to say that at all, but now it was out there she couldn't exactly retract it. She was fortunate, however, that only her son was present.

Their breakfast continued in silence, Dinah, every so often, sadly looking at the skinny boy (almost too skinny, one might say) until a member of staff entered the restaurant.

"Excuse me," she called, "is there a Mr. H. Potter in here please? There are some letters waiting for you at the front desk." With that she left.

Rigel had to stifle a laugh. "Define 'some,'" he chuckled. "That's Dumbledore for you," he grinned.

" _Professor_ Dumbledore, Rigel," Dinah corrected. "In any case, letters are written by enchanted quills. There is no one to monitor the frequency of letters; particularly not after the first was sent and ignored."

Dinah had an idea of why the first letter had been ignored, and indeed every letter after that. It all boiled down to envy.

She knew what Petunia had wanted the most all those years ago and been denied. She resented her own sister for having a gift that she didn't. The unfortunate thing was that this gift had robbed Lily of her life, along with her husband. Dinah could never say that she particularly cared for James Potter, especially not after how he treated her, but she managed to tolerate him, if only to preserve the friendship she had with Lily and her romance with Sirius.

Bringing herself back to the present she knew what was going on; she'd realised a decade ago what would have happened to him. She'd fought her hardest to prevent Harry from living with his Aunt and her family; tried to reason with the overheads at the Ministry (even with Dumbledore himself) but no one had listened. She hardly had credibility as a Death Eater and did not have legal guardianship of the boy. Sirius was Harry's godfather, but his godmother was Alice Longbottom, who had been incapacitated not too long after the killing of the Potters.

James Potter had shuddered at the thought of his nemesis ever being a godmother to any child of his, so Dinah had been overlooked.

Bringing herself back to the present, she looked to Harry, her eyes shining with tears. Harry had been neglected (most likely abused) for having the same gift as his parents. All negativity of the world from which Petunia had been barred had been thrust upon Harry. She and her family were using that hatred, though their son perhaps not understanding why but following in the footsteps of his parents, as an excuse to abuse the small boy Dinah herself had fought tooth and nail for years ago.

"Mum?" Rigel's worried voice broke Dinah from her musings and she fought the urge to cry for Harry Potter and the life he missed out on when her own Master had gone against his word and killed the boy's parents.

Dinah left her seat and abandoned the room as quickly as possible. A confused Rigel hurried after her, tripping over his shoelaces as he went, which had caused him to plough into the Dursley table.

Receiving a glare of annoyance, Rigel hastily got to his feet and followed his mother.

Once he'd caught up with her, his eyes fell on the desk and the piles of letters that had arrived for Harry. "So this is what ignorance looks like," he said.


	3. Who's Calling?

**A/N: Okay, so here's chapter three. A little bit of background here. I'm not entirely sure about it myself but I'm sure readers shall make of it what they will.**

 **There is something about Tobias Snape (the character traits you shall see through the course of this fanfic are not invented. Such people honestly exist.)**

 **It should also be implied that wizarding homes aren't necessarily without the aid of house-elves.**

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 **Chapter Three: Who's Calling?**

To say that Dinah Snape loathed the telephone was an understatement.

As a witch it was hard to believe she could possibly have use for one when she could quite easily contact someone via owl or the Floo Network.

And yet she did have one - the very same one she had growing up as a child. Oh, and she did resent it and all it stood for; the memories it held and the torment it still gave her.

She recalled all those nights when her father, completely inebriated, would yell pick-up lines, laugh with and serenade to the women in that brothel, the very place he had just returned from.

It always woke Dinah up and she could never get to sleep… at least not with him in the house.

She had once attempted to creep into her parents' bedroom and sleep at her mother's side, but once her father had entered the room, a rage overcame him (and it took next-to-nothing to set him off.)

He had dragged his seven-year-old daughter from the bed by her hair and when she hit the floor with a thud, yanked her to her feet, digging his grubby fingernails into her scalp and all but threw her at the wall. "You dare to sleep in my bed?" he had growled.

If the sound of her daughter hitting the deck wasn't enough to wake Eileen, those words were and, fighting with the bedsheets in which she had entangled herself, scrambled to where her daughter sat crumpled on the floor crying.

"Don't hurt my Dinah," Eileen wept. "Please, Tobias. She doesn't mean any harm. She's only seven."

Why Eileen Snape should have ever tried to reason with the unreasonable nobody could understand.

The neighbours could certainly hear what was going on; they knew the family wasn't normal.

The police had been around on countless occasions, courtesy of the neighbours' vigilance. The unfortunate thing was that the local police were actually fed up of seeing that place, or perhaps moreso, the family that resided within its walls.

The place itself, from the outside looking in, appeared rather ordinary but there was always something unsettling about it. Where all the other houses had colourful front doors, flowers in hanging baskets suspended over windowsills and lush grass and gardens, Number 34 looked downright miserable.

The front door and window ledges were caked in dirt and grime and the paint was chipping, the brass door-knocker scratched and without shine.

The front lawn was overgrown with weeds and there was decidedly-more dirt than grass.

The only thing regarding the outward appearance of the residence as having care put into it was Mr. Snape's car. That had to be in pristine condition and, if it weren't, then there would be hell to pay.

This must have been the fifth time so far this year that the police had been called out and it was only March.

Every single meeting ended the same. It always ended with the bobbies leaving empty-handed. They never got to arrest Tobias Snape for his misdeeds; they never realised he was manipulating the situation in his favour; anything to escape culpability.

It was so easy to say "She fell down the stairs" or "I warned her but she didn't listen. She won't be doing that again." To an outsider, Dinah Snape was the most accident-prone child in Manchester.

All those years she lived with that man and just hoped that he'd leave her and her son alone.

He had left twelve years ago now and was living with one of his mistresses in Hull. That said, a lot could change in twelve years and it was doubtful he still lived with that particular woman, knowing what he was like. Nothing ever pleased him for long and he would hop from bed to bed like a flea from rat to rat.

What good was hope to her though? Within three months there went the telephone. It was him. Would she never be free?

Bringing herself from her reverie she took in her own surroundings. The living room was dark and dingy… in fact, it could be likened to a dungeon and, if one were completely honest, the cellar was likely a more pleasant place to be than this. (Truth be told, the cellar door hadn't been opened in fifteen years. There was no telling what state it was in now.)

The house as a whole was sparse. Gone were her father's gaudy ornaments from inside and precious car from outside (the man honestly preferred his possessions to his family.)

Her father's collection of artwork that littered the walls of the house was also gone, along with their cheap gilded frames. Dinah never knew how much the frames had actually cost but they certainly looked cheap and nasty.

Dinah didn't really spend much time here, what with working away at Hogwarts for nine months of the year, so the general appearance of the house wasn't of the most importance to her, though she had never cared much for appearances. As long as the place was tidy and without clutter she could avoid unnecessary anxiety.

The garden, at least, was presentable these days. A flick of her wand at midnight sorted the garden out, though the neighbours had been a little perplexed how the weeds could be there at eleven o'clock and have disappeared by six in the morning. Honestly, did the Snape woman not sleep? Did she venture into her own garden in the middle of the night and pull all the weeds up?

The obnoxious tone made her shudder. She dreaded the very idea of picking up that phone. Who knew who was on the other end? Police? Cold callers? Or worse…? She hoped not.

"Hello?" she questioned after a short pause.

No sooner were those two syllables out of her mouth that the receiver was now about two-feet away from her. That shriek turned her blood cold.

The angry voice at the other end ranted and raved. It was as though the aggressive caller had verbal diarrhoea.

When finally permitted to speak, Dinah shakily returned the receiver to her ear. "I don't have it," she spoke softly. She was fortunate that when she slowed down her tone calmed. Perhaps it was this slow speech that intimidated her students.

More yelling from the other end of the phone was the result.

"I cannot give you what I don't have. I'm still trying to pay these debts off," she said. Despite shaking with unreleased anger, such emotion was left from her speech.

Debts? That was another matter entirely. The party on the other end of the phone was the cause of said debts and took it upon himself to accuse his daughter of his own actions.

She had hardly noticed her son silently entering the vicinity, a look of disbelief on his face. He didn't understand how she could be so calm and level-headed when teaching a class of would-be rambunctious teenagers, yet, when faced with her own flesh and blood, could morph into a nervous wreck.

Dinah would have loved to tell her father to shove his demands and insults where the Sun didn't shine. She'd love to, if only just once, tell him the truth about himself and have him listen, without resorting to abuse. But that would never happen.

Even with the continuous screaming on the phone, Rigel made sure he was heard. "Don't listen to him, Mum."

Dinah turned to see the most precious thing in her life leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded and a warm smile on his face. He looked so much like his father.

Straightening himself up, Rigel strode with confidence to where his mother stood, took the phone from her hand and placed it, rather carefully, back on the receiver.

"Why d'you put up with it?" he asked. "You know it's all lies. You know what he wants that money for and you still try and bargain with him."

It was true enough that this time she hadn't come quite so close to 'bargaining' with her father, as Rigel put it, but she had done so on countless occasions in the past. Rigel was honestly fed up of the telephone himself. The only calls they really received these days were from his grandfather and that was reason enough for him to throw the device out of the window. Rigel hated his grandfather and all he stood for. He never really knew the whole story but there was some instinctive theory in his mind that Tobias had treated his daughter abominably.

The phone started ringing again. Rigel glared at the device before uttering a rather slow-spoken "Shut… up…" which might certainly have given his mother a run for her money.

The boy was so pleased that he and his mother were spared from having an answering machine; therefore if the phone remained unacknowledged then Dinah wouldn't get hurt and, to Rigel, that was the only thing that mattered.

The pair remained in silence as the phone continued to ring, though there was certainly slightly-dissipated tension once it had stopped.

With the ceasing of the repetitive tone, which, if one had listened to it enough, Rigel might have described it as a castrated owl, activity arose in the fireplace as his mother was summoned to Hogwarts by the Headmaster himself.

Of course, the most this did was stress Dinah and she felt rather upset enough, as she angrily snatched a handful of floo powder from the pot on the mantelpiece and threw it into the fire before stepping in there herself.

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Professor Dumbledore's Office," she said in a monotone voice.

Rigel knew how his mother felt about intimacy and feelings. She hated being touched, she struggled to show affection, even to her own son. He didn't mind so much though. He knew she loved him and he more than understood why she wasn't one for cuddling, if his grandfather's verbal treatment of her was anything to go by. What else he had done to her, Rigel didn't really want to know, despite his constant musings on why his mother was the way she was.

No, he didn't mind not receiving a hug or kiss goodbye. "I love you, Mum."


	4. Fool's Errand

**Chapter Four: Fool's Errand**

If there was one location throughout the entirety of the Hogwarts grounds that Dinah Snape loathed more than any other, it was the Headmaster's office.

She could never say that particular room had regarded her with much favour. In fact, the more time spent there the less she deemed it a positive place. In many ways it was a mood killer.

She'd had her fair share of time spent in Dumbledore's office, both as a student and then as a teacher. When she thought about it she couldn't remember a time she ever felt happy there. During staff meetings she could never even crack the smallest hint of a smile; never mind laughing, as her colleagues were able to do.

She could never forget the shame and embarrassment thrust upon her person over the years. She couldn't forget the silent promises she had made to the Headmaster, or the pleading and begging she had done. She could scarcely count the number of times she had wept in that room.

It was rather unfortunate to say that the room's cheery appearance with the Headmaster's unusual trinkets belied its true nature; at least for the Potions Mistress.

And, somehow, here she was again; back in this room.

As she dusted the soot from her rather ordinary muggle clothes, a most-unusual sight to behold for any of her colleagues or students had they been present at that moment, she made her way towards the Headmaster's desk.

"Ah, Dinah, dear girl," he greeted with a tone of surprise, as though he hadn't been expecting her at all. "Please, do take a seat," he added, indicating the furniture to her right opposite himself.

"If you don't mind, Sir, I'd much prefer to stand," she said slowly, attempting to keep an even tone.

The Headmaster was unwilling to argue with Dinah Snape. "I must say, Dinah, blue does suit you," he smiled, taking in her attire. Sirius used to say that… but he had also said the same of purple and gold.

With a reference to Sirius she'd much rather have not been reminded of, the Head of Slytherin, tensed. Had he honestly brought her to his rotten office solely to torment her with memories of her gaolbird lover?

"Sherbet lemon?" he offered, holding out a small pot of boiled yellow sweets.

"No, thank you," was her clipped response. She most certainly did not come here to exchange pleasantries either.

Placing the pot back on the desk he leant back in his seat and clasped his hands together as though pondering something or other.

"I rather expect you're wondering why I called you here, Dinah."

Not really. The fact she had gone to that hotel on his orders to observe the Potter boy and his… relatives (she could hardly call them 'family' - from what she'd observed they didn't act much like it) answered more than enough questions.

"Harry Potter," she spoke quietly, keeping her voice even.

Oh, she could certainly have a few choice words with the man sitting before her right now but when had that ever helped her in the past?

"I've been rather concerned that we've yet to receive an owl of acceptance from him."

The man acted as though he didn't have a clue. Surely he knew what had been going on; not only the last few days, but over the years?

Dinah merely folded her arms and sent a subtle glare in the aged wizard's general direction.

"They have been starving him." The woman spoke bluntly. "I do not know the extent of abuse," she began, though the Headmaster cut her off.

"Oh, now, now, Dinah, abuse is a strong word," he said. All this did was anger the witch before him. She knew what abuse was; she'd endured it long enough and she'd never be rid of it; not completely. It was bad enough it happened to her but to happen to another could send the woman into a fit of rage.

"Abuse is exactly what it is, Sir," she scowled. The Headmaster had never liked the expression currently plastered over his colleague's face. "The first I saw of Harry," she continued, "he was the one carrying the bags and following orders. Headmaster, Harry is a child; not a pack-horse."

Just as the raven-haired teacher could never say she cared for Dumbledore's office, the Headmaster himself would struggle to say he cared much for her. It was evident that over the last two decades he had grown less fond of his former-student-now-colleague.

Following a short pause the elderly wizard spoke softly. "Arabella has informed me that all has been well. There's no cause for concern, Dinah. Harry is perfectly fine, I'm sure."

Dinah sighed heavily. "With all due respect, Sir, while I've nothing against the woman, she has appeared to me as being rather preoccupied with her cats."

It was true she had met Arabella Figg on one or two occasions. It had been those times she had attempted to keep an eye on Harry and monitor the behaviour from his relatives. The squib did appear to enjoy talking about her many feline companions, though when it came to answering questions regarding Harry's well-being, Dinah didn't quite receive the response she had been hoping for.

The young witch had never had much of a response from the Headmaster either, when it came to the famed Boy-Who-Lived. She had also been instructed not to return to Little Whinging. As a Slytherin, in normal circumstances, that wouldn't have stopped her, but it was evident she had anything but a normal upbringing. She knew there'd be a price to pay for acting out in defiance. There always was.

"Hagrid has gone to fetch the boy," the white-haired wizard spoke, completely disregarding the woman's words, though she couldn't really say that had surprised her much. He'd disregarded her words almost ten years ago too, as she tried to keep him away from Petunia's wrath.

Why Hagrid? Could she not have done so herself while at the hotel? Harry was there, right under her nose; she could have explained it all to him and brought him to the magical world herself; even done so discretely. As decent a half-giant as the groundskeeper was he wasn't one for discretion.

"Headmaster, I do believe you have wasted my time," she said, her tone rather blunt. Unfolding her arms, she abandoned the office through the main door.

Precisely why she hadn't used the fireplace was a mystery, but old habits die hard and she was taking the tried and tested route back to her private quarters in the lower half of the castle.

The halls, at least, were clear of students. She had time to clear her head before returning to Spinner's End.

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 **A/N: I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but, as you can see things are a little different. Dinah is more tolerant than her Canon counterpart and, of course, Dumbledore is manipulative.  
**  
 **I am, of course, trying to move the story along and it may seem like 'filler' chapters at the moment, but I don't care much for fics which only start when things get 'interesting,' as it were. I like a bit of background information, so I hope these first few chapters are offering a little insight.**


	5. Innocence

**A/N: Okay, something of a long chapter, but I got an idea so I included it before I forgot. Perhaps considered a little OOC, but certain substances can affect people in different ways.**

 **Bit of language/innuendo in this one perhaps. Must change the rating. Just a forewarning.**

* * *

 **Chapter Five: Innocence**

As the Sun rose on Spinner's End, one lonely, rather flustered, woman sat at her kitchen table, bills strewn everywhere.

There was no telling how much money she owed. The figure seemed to increase considerably with every passing year and there was no real doubt in her mind that her father was purchasing all his 'necessities' (necessities for him were luxuries for the poor) in his daughter's name and she was footing the bill for it. How she was supposed to feed herself and her son for the month of August she didn't know.

Setting down the pile of letters currently in her hand, she focused her attention to her left appendage and the purple rock on her third finger which shone in the candlelight. Over the last decade she had, on numerous occasions, considered selling it.

It was the only thing she had of any real value, except her son and she couldn't very well sell him. Oh, she'd thought about it once or twice when he'd been causing mischief at Hogwarts with the Weasley twins, but it would be unfair to the customer. They'd bring him back in half an hour demanding a full refund; he'd drive them crazy. He was a good lad but he could drive people to distraction.

Still, that engagement ring, however tempting it was to sell to put food on the table, held too many memories for Dinah to ever part with.

Sighing, her head rested on her right hand, her elbow on the table, as she looked into the faceted amethyst, as though it could provide her with all the answers.

"Oh, Sirius… Would it be like this if you were here?" She paused. "Would Vega still be here? Would the Littl'un still be here?"

Tears met her eyes as she thought of the two children she had lost. Sweet little Vega with the bouncing curls who drowned in the river; baby Sirius who died mere hours after birth. Sirius could have saved them. He'd have been diving in that river for his little princess and saved her life. He'd never have let his newborn son die.

"Would Harry have been happy with you, Sirius?" she wept. She could never consider herself in the picture with Harry and Sirius. Dinah was not Harry's legal guardian, but Sirius was. She had no real place in Harry's life. James was even reluctant to have her in the house at all, but she was Lily's best friend and if he was allowed to spend all the time in the world with his friends, she should have that same privilege. Oh, they'd had an argument about that, but Dinah left before she could add further fuel to the flame.

"I have no doubt he would be loved."

Instead, unfortunately for Harry, he was stuck living with Lily's sister. There was no love in that house; Dinah knew that, but Dumbledore was unwilling to see the problem.

Sighing, she resigned herself to the fact that there was no use in pondering 'what ifs?' All that could do was drown her in the misery of what might have been; far from reality.

Her thoughts returned to her other children. She hadn't been to their shared gravestone in four years; not since Vega's funeral. She blamed herself, of course. If she hadn't let Rigel take his sister out to play that day Vega would have still been with them. She'd have been starting at Hogwarts this year, had she survived, and that hurt Dinah far more than she ever thought possible. Harry was starting Hogwarts and the little girl he played with a decade earlier never would.

One thing James Potter could never have done was separate his son from the children of his own best friend (no matter who the mother was) so Rigel and Vega, at least, were welcome in the Potters' home, even if 'Snape' (he could never bring himself to call her by her first name) wasn't.

Little Sirius wasn't on the scene at the time, but he hadn't fared a great deal better than Vega had.

He had been conceived in the Summer of '81. That was an interesting weekend for the proud parents.

Smiling at the memory, her first genuine smile in a long time, Dinah recalled the "Blackpool Fiasco," as it had been named not too long after the event by her significant other.

She could never be truly angry at Sirius for his indiscretion because he did make her laugh, though he did spend Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday making excuses for his behaviour. Oh, she was more than irritable at the time but when she thought back now she recalled the memory with fondness. Perhaps it was because Sirius was no longer by her side; incarcerated in Azkaban. Too often people fail to recognise what's right under their nose and Dinah honestly spent more time being angry at him than she did laughing with him.

* * *

 _Still, she remembered the Rose Hotel and the undeclared programme of events she was to share with Sirius. There was nothing disclosed in the advert about drunken, naked men obnoxiously skipping down the halls singing muggle ballads loudly and off-key and causing their angry partners to throw the door open, pull them inside and verbally chew their ears off (or maybe that was just Sirius and herself.)_

 _She hated alcohol. She'd been around it long enough with her father and now her partner had taken a shine to it. He hadn't known, of course, at least not up until that point. Once she realised what he'd been getting up to, of course, he knew where he stood on the fermented fruit front._

 _She'd all but thrown the poor man into the bath and blasted him with cold water from the shower. His cries of "Dinah! I'm freezing my balls off!" were meaningless, as she drew the shower curtain around him, abandoned the bathroom, slammed the door and then did the same to the main door of the bedroom._

 _"Did ya ever 'ear such a racket?" one guest said._

 _"Must be honeymooners," another replied in a state of amusement, when Dinah arrived outside the door, in a state of tremendous irritation._

 _It appeared as though all other guests in that part of the hotel had left their rooms in response to the commotion from Room 12B. All eyes were on Dinah; some wide-eyed, some in disbelief, and several of them with a mischievous glint in their eyes._

 _"I dunno what you're all starin' at," the black-haired woman seethed. "There's nothin' to see." With that, she turned to re-enter the room._

 _Of course, in her agitation, she'd forgotten the key and was now locked out._

 _"Oh, flamin' Norah!" she growled, her accent becoming significantly-more pronounced with her anger. Banging on the door, she called to the current source of her grouchiness. "Lemme in!"_

 _From the other side of the door, and over the sounds of running water, an inebriated cry was heard. "Le' me out!"_

 _A round of sniggers sounded throughout the hallway, and Dinah turned with rage-filled eyes. "Don't you all have places to be?" Her voice was soft and slow, considerably different from the tone they'd previously heard._

 _One by one, the guests had returned to their rooms, still laughing._

 _She had eventually got back into the room after a rather soggy, still-naked Sirius opened the door for her. Admittedly it took twenty minutes, but she did get back in._

 _Of course, after all the alcohol Sirius had had that night there was no way he was sleeping in the bed; Dinah made sure of that. It was true enough that she had given him his two wafer-thin hotel pillows, plus the cushions the hotel apparently had in abundance, and three towels and two blankets out of the wardrobe to make a bed for him on the floor, but that didn't mean he was sleeping there._

 _About an hour after finally getting to sleep, Dinah had been woken by a pitiful moaning. With two children, any little thing could have woken her up at any given moment. Unlike Sirius, she was a light sleeper._

 _Her eyes fell on the carriage clock on the bedside table. Twenty-to-four. Rolling onto her right side she then realised something. She wasn't holding his hand anymore. They usually held hands in bed and, even though she was annoyed at him that night (and he had been sleeping on the floor as a result) it hadn't stopped her._

 _"Sirius…?" she called, groggily._

 _Leaning over the side of the bed she noticed he wasn't there and, like a curse from a wand, she shot out of bed, having fought with the bedsheets and stubbed her toe on the table along the back wall as she went to frantically search for him. Precisely where he was now, she didn't know, although she did trip over something soft and went ploughing head-first into the door._

 _"Ohhhhh…" There was the moaning again._

 _Turning to look to the source, ignoring her throbbing head, Dinah's eyes fell on the drunk fool she involved herself with who was kneeling in front of the open wardrobe._

 _"Sirius…?" she asked quizzically. Why could he possibly be on his knees in front of the wardrobe? Righting herself, she crawled to his side. "What is it, honey?" she asked, stroking his cheek. "Are you hurt?"_

 _It wasn't so strange that Dinah Snape had her tender side. She could be as sweet as pie if you caught her on a good day._

 _"I…. need…" He was almost breathless._

 _"What? What d'you need? Say it; I'll get it," she promised._

 _He seemed to spend ages getting his last word out but Dinah was surprisingly patient when the time called for it. "… food."_

 _Dinah instantly released her supporting hold on the man before her and leaned back. "So that's it? All these theatrics for a bloody biscuit?"_

 _She stumbled over to the table (the very source which had her currently nursing a throbbing toe) and blindly examined the contents of the complimentary tray. Well, rather, the empty kettle, tiny plastic pots of milk, individual paper sachets of sugar and… one plain biscuit. Snatching up the solitary plastic-wrap-encased cookie (not even a particularly nice flavour, as she recalled) she virtually threw it at her intended. "One biscuit," she spat, before hobbling back into bed. "And for Merlin's sake, put some pants on. Good-night." So irate as she was, she threw herself back on the bed. Trying to get any sort of sleep that night, of course, was impossible however. No witch should ever go to bed angry._

 _In the half an hour that had passed, sleep continued to evade her. It was only once she heard Sirius wrenching and throwing up that she felt truly satisfied. That was his penance for drinking. Admittedly, she had seen the still-pantless Sirius throwing up in the wardrobe, but he was doing so in his own shoes. Dinah certainly wasn't gonna stop him; it'd teach him a lesson._

 _By the time morning came round, Dinah might have even skipped to the dining room; she was so satisfied. It was payback time for some of the misery he'd put her through at school._

 _By the time he squelched into the hotel restaurant, other residents holding napkins over their noses, Dinah was sat at the table, waiting patiently for the aftermath. She could smell the contents of his shoes, of course, but didn't allow it to bother her._

 _"Morning!" she teased, entirely-too-chipper for Dinah Snape. She wasn't usually so energetic, but Sirius would just have to humour her this time._

 _He held his head in his hands, and groaned, much the same as he had in the night._

 _"Oh dear," she announced, deliberately, "it looks like someone had too much to drink last night. Are you hungry, sweetheart?"_

 _He spoke between groans. "Don't patronise me, Dinah. Why does this restaurant smell like vomit?"_

 _Dinah smirked. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed, darlin', but you've never been very observant, have you?"_

 _"What happened last night?" he groaned._

 _She had a bit of fun with that question. "Wet dreams," she smiled._

 _At this, he had lifted his head to look at her. "Are you smiling or smirking?"_

 _"Oh, I can be doing whatever you want me to be doing. Smiling, smirking, bringing biscuits, ordering kippers…"_

 _"Kippers?" Sirius shot up in nauseated rage at the mere mention of kippers, but had to slowly return to his seat and hold his head once more. "Why?" he moaned in pain._

 _Dinah shook her head. "Don't do that, Sirius; you sound like a troll having an orgasm."_

 _Wide-eyed, Sirius gaped at the pint-sized partner he had chosen for himself. Did she really just say that?_

 _"Close your mouth; the Knight Bus is coming," she added, flatly. With that, Sirius snapped his mouth shut._

 _"Why did you order kippers, you stupid woman? I hate kippers!" the curly-haired wizard sounded like a petulant child._

 _"I know," was his future spouse's reply, with a smile plastered right across her face. "What happened to your clothes, by the way?" she asked, changing the subject._

 _"My clothes? Hey, what happened to the kipper argument? You never answered my question."_

 _Now, the couple were really beginning to attract the attention of other residents._

 _Dinah shrugged innocently. "Who said we were arguing?_ I _didn't say we were arguing."_

 _"Answer my question then, you dosy bint." His hangover wasn't affecting his ability to insult her; that was certain._

 _"Heard of a little thing called revenge, Sirius?" she replied._

 _"Sirius?" a chorus of perplexed residents chanted. "What kind of a name is Sirius?"_

 _"It's the kind of name you'd give to flea-ridden mongrel who appears to be under the misapprehension that the Sun shines out of his backside," was Dinah's response. She would have said something about eavesdropping, but was feeling rather generous that morning._

 _At that, the aforementioned 'flea-ridden mongrel' slammed his hand on the table, prompting his other to attach to his head once more in pain. "I'm not gonna sit here while you insult me, Snape." With that, he rose from his seat, and traipsed through the restaurant, squelching on the way._

 _"Where are you gonna sit then? The comfy chair in the lobby? Good luck with that one; you'll have to fork out the upholstery bill." With one look at the floor, she hastened to add. "Mind the carpet."_

 _With that, the waiter arrived with a plate of cold fish and placed it at Sirius' recently-vacated space, sniffing the air as he went; trying to find the source of the nauseating stench. He at one point resorted to checking his own shoes._

 _"Oh, Sirius, your kippers?" Dinah called._

 _Sirius turned just enough to shout back "You're bonkers!" while attempting to force down the bile that had risen to his throat._

 _Sirius had been for a walk on the beach that day to try and clear his head… and perhaps his shoes. He didn't know what had happened the night before or why there was sick in his shoes, but he had to get rid of them. Where a quick 'scourgify' may have done the trick, as practical Dinah would have done, he was in the presence of muggles now and he couldn't very well have done magic without incurring penalties from the Ministry of Magic. It was easier to just throw them in the bin. His soppy socks had gone in there too, and he'd gone down to the beach from there._

 _He didn't know, however, that Blackpool Pleasure Beach wasn't the most pleasurable of beaches. There was no sand; just pebbles, glass, bin liners and other cast-offs. Needless to say, he waddled liked a goblin into the hotel later that day on his knees._

 _"Oh, Sirius, how sensitive of you," Dinah said, taking into account the shuffling wizard. "We're finally the same height."_

 _"Shut up, you," the Gryffindor spat._

 _"I did warn you. I told you Thursday not to go to the beach in bare feet."_

 _"Well, you didn't tell me it was full of rocks and rubbish, did you?"_

 _"I thought that was implied," Dinah smirked, and made her way up to the room._

 _It was a while before Sirius could join her, of course, but she had the door open waiting for him._

 _"Get on the bed," Dinah said._

 _"Oh, Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?" Sirius teased, before he was even over the threshold. He'd seen a few muggle films in his time. They'd watched some of them together; others he'd watched with James._

 _Of course it had been only to tend to his feet… and perhaps his knees, which were red raw from friction. More than likely carpet burns._

 _After she had cleaned and healed him, naturally with magic, she took to massaging his feet._

 _Sirius groaned in pleasure. "Oh, Di, have you considered changing jobs? That feels so good."_

 _Dinah sighed and rolled her eyes. "Must you turn a simple pain relief into something sexual, Sirius? Really!" With that, she slapped his foot in annoyance._

 _"And what about you? 'You sound like a troll having an orgasm.' How are you any different?" He retorted, in a rather poor rendition of his would-be spouse's accent._

 _Dinah said nothing._

 _Ignoring the pains in his feet, and indeed his knees, the Lion leaned into the Serpent. "Dinah," he teased, in a sing-song voice. She turned to look at him, deep into his eyes. "I know you can be a pain sometimes, but I do love ya," he grinned._

 _She knew that already. It wasn't something she needed to be told. She'd always been a nuisance to people and Sirius was no different; he just tolerated her more than the average Joe._

 _She turned away from him. She couldn't let him know how much those words actually hurt and it would be written in her eyes. He didn't really know what sort of childhood she had, and she certainly wasn't about to tell him._

 _Leaning in closer, he gently pulled her hair away from her face. "Dinah," he whispered playfully, kissing her on the cheek._

 _Apprehensively, she looked back at him, only for him to kiss her again. She did eventually return it and he slowly pulled her down to lie on the bed…_

* * *

Suffice to say, that was the time Sirius Junior was conceived, and, while it turned out to be a better day than perhaps the couple expected, it wasn't to last.

On Hallowe'en of 1981, Lily and James were murdered, leaving little Harry an orphan.

Several days later, Frank and Alice Longbottom were tortured to insanity for refusing to betray the Potters.

Sirius was sent to Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit. Dinah knew he didn't kill all those muggles. She knew he would never betray his friends. He was innocent and she could do nothing about it.

In March of 1982, Dinah had a rather undignified labour with her premature son. The fact that her waters had broken while teaching a class of first-year students didn't leave much to the imagination for twenty eleven-year-olds. They certainly didn't need to be taught about the birds and bees.

One sensible Hufflepuff was level-headed enough to fetch Madam Pomfrey and Dinah certainly respected her for that.

The Mediwitch had considered moving Dinah to a better place for the birth of her child, but it would be rather difficult, considering the trouble she had had with previous births Poppy herself had supervised.

"Oh, what am I going to do with you, Dinah?" she chided gently. This would be the third child of Dinah's she would have brought into the world.

She hadn't supervised the birth of little Vega, but she had brought Rigel, and, indeed, her very first child into the world. She was only a child herself when she had him.

Nobody knew who would do something so terrible to one so young. She was only fourteen and bringing a baby into the world. It was true the baby was unwanted, for all the misery pregnancy had brought her. She couldn't bond with him. She wouldn't feed him, change him or hold him when he cried. No, the Mediwitch did all that.

But, thinking about it, Poppy wondered if her colleague had known at the time what was to happen; that she wouldn't be able to keep him. That, in itself, was reason enough for the teen not to bond with him; to save herself the emotional pain if he was taken from her. And he was.

She couldn't bond with him, but that didn't mean that she felt nothing when he was taken from her. Taken by Ministry Officials, who wrenched the baby boy out of her grasp. It was the only time she held him; to hand him over to Merlin-Knows-Who.

The Matron had to hold the girl back to keep from running after them when they left and the teen wasn't the only one sobbing that day.

But that wintery day in March wasn't much different. That baby had lived only a few hours and the two females ended up in the same state they both had almost eight years previously.

Dinah didn't like talking about her other children. It was too painful for her and Rigel, bless him, didn't know anything about his older half-brother, for which she was glad.

He didn't really know about his younger brother really, either. He was only four when Little Sirius was born and he noticed his Mummy had a big belly one day and the next she didn't… and she didn't have a baby with her. How she could speak of him at all, Dinah had no idea, let alone to her other baby boy who could never comprehend death at such a young age.

It was true she hadn't been affectionate to Rigel for a long time. Since Vega's death, it seemed. It was almost as if she was too scared to touch him now; that if she did she would cause him pain and lose him forever.

Neither could she allow him to really see how she felt. She'd never been able to truly express her feelings; it had been ingrained into her long ago.

Her hands were cold and wet, she realised. Merlin forbid he should see her in a state of weakness, as she moved to the sink and removed all evidence of her emotional pain.

Of course, they were going to Diagon Alley later that morning; she couldn't let herself go like that.

Tidying herself up, she refocused her attention to the mass of white paper on the table. She'd almost forgotten.

Rapidly organising them into piles by date, she found a place for them in one of the cupboards. Rigel would never see her debts. He was a teenage boy; why would he possibly go into a kitchen cupboard?

With a flick of her wand, she quickly tidied the remainder of the kitchen and ventured into the living room to read. She had to clear her head before leaving the house.


	6. Bittersweet

**Chapter Six: Bittersweet**

Their trip to Diagon Alley had been uneventful, for which Dinah was thankful. She had always been the woman who just wanted things done as quickly and with as few hitches as possible, though life wasn't always quite so simple.

It hadn't been easy the last couple of years since Rigel began his Hogwarts education. Trying to find money for school supplies was exceedingly difficult, especially considering all she owed to companies and money lenders.

Of course, they could fall back on Sirius' vault and the money that legally belonged to their son, though Dinah hated the very idea of living off her incarcerated partner. She would only get the bare minimum required for Rigel's school supplies, although this coming year he, as a third year student, now had the privilege of attending the village of Hogsmeade outside of school hours. It would be nice if he had some money for those weekends; she knew Sirius would want him to have some.

Once Rigel got his rather small amount of money from his father's vault, they had set off for the second-hand shops. They could often find used school textbooks and equipment in pretty good condition for a small fee, considering what they'd pay in the larger shops.

There was only one book that they hadn't been able to find there and had to venture into Diagon Alley's most famous of bookshops, Flourish and Blott's, to purchase.

Dinah wished she could have saved Sirius' bank account and given her old books to her son, but they'd been burned years ago in a fit of her father's rage. She may not have had a use for them now, but her son did.

She had needed some things from the Apothecary for the upcoming year, but what was she to pay with? That was Sirius' money; Rigel's money. Not hers. She'd simply have to wait and ask the Headmaster for an advance on her salary.

They had met up with Rigel's friends, the Weasleys, that day. They were doing some last-minute shopping themselves.

Dinah had never met the senior Weasleys, or indeed the two younger children, before that day, though she had come close to writing to Mrs. Weasley once or twice in the last two years. Her twin sons were rather mischievous. She couldn't fault their creativity, but pranks were, most definitely, not her favourite thing in the world. She'd had enough of that in her own school years without the next generation continuing the practice.

The Weasleys had invited the Potions Professor and her son to the Leaky Cauldron for a bite to eat with them.

It was improper to dine with students and their families, even outside of school hours, and Dinah had protested as such, though her attempts had turned out to be futile. There was no way she could win against Molly Weasley; the plump, ginger-haired witch simply wouldn't allow it. "You're all skin and bones, dear," she had scolded, kindly, to which three of her sons had snickered at the maternal reprimand.

It was hardly a description she could deny. With money so scarce in her house it wasn't often that she and her son ate, though when they were able to afford food she, naturally, gave Rigel all he required. He was still a growing boy; he needed it. She hadn't grown an inch in the last twenty years; what use did she have for food? As long as she at least had water she was unlikely to kick the bucket in the next five days.

That said, there was still the fact that she felt uncomfortable eating anyway; even in her private quarters at Hogwarts. Though it may have been true that she didn't appear to be the type of witch who was so self-conscious, those words had still played in her head, even from her first week at Hogwarts, and eating was certainly something she could barely think of doing without recalling her upbringing.

Truth be told, the last thing she really wanted at that moment was to eat dinner with the Weasleys in public.

* * *

 _"Merlin, she eats like an animal," he had said, completely disgusted. James Potter._

 _The first he saw of her after the Sorting Ceremony was from across the room that same night, and, with a clear line of sight of the oddball Slytherin, he watched her eat her tea. She was anything but ladylike. She tore into that drumstick like a child possessed; the poor chicken was hacked to pieces._

 _She had barely touched her cutlery, eating the contents of her plate with her fingers._

 _The curly-haired boy next to him responded. "Don't say that. It's unfair to animals," and he and James had laughed together. Two other boys had been in the vicinity at the time that they'd met on the Hogwarts Express, Remus and Peter, and even they found the humour in it._

 _However, the red-headed girl, Dinah's best friend Lily, had jumped in to defend the Slytherin._

 _"That's not very nice," she said. "How would you like it if someone said that about you?"_

 _"Who'd ever say that about me?" the bespectacled boy scoffed. "I've actually heard of manners."_

 _"Dinah has enough manners to not say nasty things about people," Lily retorted, fire in her eyes._

 _It never mattered to Lily that her friend wasn't the most… delicate of eaters; no one was perfect. She didn't know the reason why, but never questioned it._

 _Of course, Dinah had never been taught how to eat in a dignified manner. Her father had always eaten the way she had in the Great Hall that evening. He had kept his wife as far away from her daughter as possible, even when under the same roof, so Eileen couldn't teach her the etiquette she'd been taught herself as a child and Dinah deserved to know to avoid ridicule by her peers._

 _From the following day forward, Dinah was harassed by the boys. She would never defend herself, however, something Lily couldn't understand._

 _Lily hadn't known until several years later that her friend's upbringing had been anything less than desirable._

 _There had been one occasion when Dinah was five and tried to speak up for herself… to her father; the biggest mistake she had ever made to date at that point in time._

 _Fully-aware of the penalty following that confrontation, she didn't speak out in defence of herself anymore, for fear of upsetting anyone else in the same manner and having to live with the guilt every day of her life, which she would surely be reminded of on a daily basis._

* * *

Regardless, she sat with the family and watched her son socialise with the ginger-haired children.

Mrs. Weasley had tried talking to her, but Dinah wasn't quite so eager.

The older witch had also tried getting the teacher to eat something, but she wouldn't. Rigel offered her a solitary chip off his plate and she wouldn't even eat that.

When the children's plates were empty they had gone off to explore Diagon Alley, though not without a few words of warning from their mothers.

Mrs. Weasley had reiterated the same warning her children had memorised several years ago. The twins had even finished off her speech for her.

Dinah had turned to her own son. "Do not enter Gambol and Jape's," she said, slowly shaking her head. She hadn't forgotten what happened last year when she had given her son free reign in Diagon Alley and the mischief he got up to at Hogwarts.

The silvery-eyed teen feigned disappointment. "Oh, ple-e-e-ease,"he begged playfully in a sing-song voice. "I won't cause trouble, I promise."

"I seem to recall you saying that last year," she replied, in a monotone voice. "Stay out of trouble."

Turning to exit, Rigel rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mum," he sighed.

Before she could rebuke him for rolling his eyes at her, he had already gone off with the five redheads.

In the absence of youth, the senior Weasleys had once more attempted to strike up conversation with the woman, though without success; thus the trio wound up in something of an awkward silence.

When the youngsters had returned an hour later, the family of past, present and future Gryffindors had bid their farewells and made their way home, leaving the two dark-haired individuals standing face-to-face with one another.

Rigel smiled. "No pranks were pulled in that adventure, Mum. Don't worry," he chuckled. He then pulled from behind him a gift-wrapped box and handed it to his mother, who glanced at her son warily. "It's not a bomb; it's Christmas come early," he joked, and handed the present to his mother.

"You weren't to spend any money, except for the bare necessities," Dinah told the young man before her, as she gingerly took the package from his hands.

"This is a necessity, Mum. It's necessary for you."

Dinah wasn't quite so sure about that, but gently tugged on the purple velvet ribbon, allowing the gold paper to graciously fall from the box. Inside the box were two dozen brand new crystal phials.

As the woman raised her eyes to meet those of her son, he spoke again.

"Don't say anything. I know you needed new ones. I've seen the state of the ones on your classroom shelves. They're filthy and cracked. Last time I was in there I got covered in lovage juice." He grimaced at the memory, recollecting the befuddling ingredient. "I wasn't the only one confused that day."

Unsure of what to say, as she glanced from the contents of the box to the young man before her, Dinah had to settle for a "Thank you, Rigel."

Rigel had wanted to hug his mother, kiss her even, but he knew how uncomfortable she was with such contact, especially considering events of the last few years. In a somewhat bold move, however, he did take his mother's hand in his own.

Despite her discomfort, she had to admit to herself that she did feel slightly more secure at his touch than she had before.

* * *

As the pair made their way down the platform of King's Cross Station, an hour early, Dinah watched her son disappear through the brick wall, which led to the Hogwarts Express. She hoped muggles hadn't seen it happen. She'd never considered it to be the most discrete placement for a barrier between the worlds of the magical and non-magical.

Observing the muggles around her, Dinah chose her moment wisely, before casually striding straight through the wall. On the other side, Rigel was waiting patiently for her.

He was, one might say, the ever-dutiful son; the son many would wish for. The truth was, he didn't like the thought of his mother being alone; at least not for extended periods of time. While two minutes of solitude could scarcely make much of an impact, he'd seen first-hand that she sometimes closed herself off from the world. He didn't like it, but he'd grown used to it.

The two walked in the direction of the scarlet steam engine for Rigel to board.

"Have a safe journey," was the plain farewell from his mother.

It hurt him that she wouldn't hug or kiss him like other mothers did with their sons, even in their awkward teenage years, but he'd never been able to tell her.

"I will," he smiled, weakly, hoisting his luggage onto the train.

"Don't eat too many sweets. You'll spoil your dinner."

"I won't," the boy sighed, dejected by the lack of affection. "I'll see you at Hogwarts, Mum."

"See you at Hogwarts," she whispered, before turning and leaving the platform.


	7. Bat of the Dungeons

**Author's Note: Hi, all. This chapter may seem like a long time coming, but I must admit I had writer's block and when I finally got ideas I was in no real position to continue. The latter half of this chapter is the product of one Bank Holiday weekend. Hurrah for the holidays!**

 **Dinah may or may not feel different to the Canon Severus we're so used to and, therefore do feel free to speak your mind.**

 **I realise there may be repetition in this chapter, for which I do apologise.**

 **I do appreciate people reading my fics, so thank you very much for your time.**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven: Bat of the Dungeons**

The route from Hogsmeade Station to the wrought-iron gates of Hogwarts was a path Dinah had taken many times over the years.

In her youth, she would have taken one of the boats across the Black Lake or ridden in a carriage which had moved by itself. She never questioned the carriages themselves; after all, this was the magical world and even inanimate objects had been known to have lives on their own.

Of course, she knew better now; had done for years. Those carriages were not pulled by magical at all, but by unusual creatures visible only to those who had witnessed death.

It had been her first evening back after the Christmas holidays in her fifth year that she first saw them. At the time she didn't understand it, but something had happened at New Year. She'd seen death that winter and she now couldn't bear to look at them. Her initial intrigue on sight of the skeletal, horse-like creatures had left when she realised what they represented. She couldn't bear the sight of them now. Their mere presence had her stomach in knots.

In one way, she rather liked walking from the Station to Hogwarts. It gave her time to think, and with the frequent dark thoughts that plagued her mind, she found comfort in the silence.

As if expecting her, the gates to the castle opened wide and permitted her entry, as she wended her way towards the dungeons where her personal quarters were located.

The corridors were free from students once more, which she was glad of for the moment. Of course, they'd be arriving in a few short hours, so she had to make the most of the quiet while she could.

"Merlin, you look scruffy," a voice spoke up. "Fall off yer broomstick, did ya?"

Dinah stopped abruptly and slowly turned her head to the right to face a portrait. Dead people in picture frames were criticising her now? That was rich coming from a man who passed on after falling from his own broomstick.

She knew she wasn't much to look at. True, she never made a great deal of effort, but apparition sometimes turned her into a ragamuffin. Being tousled about like that did often leave her hair a mess and after the graceless landing she'd experienced earlier she wasn't the most desirable of witches, with dirt on her clothes and twigs and leaves decorating her hair. Admittedly, she'd been so distracted, she hadn't noticed, and merely glared at the portrait before continuing on her way.

She was fortunate there was no human traffic walking by as she made her way down the halls and corridors. She had no questioning glances, nothing to explain, which suited her just fine.

Leaving the warmth of the upper floor, she made her way down into the dingy dungeons and through the passageway to her private quarters.

One might say she lived in the bowels of the castle. She'd often deemed such a term rather fitting. She was out of the way of most people - or, essentially, all people; even the young Slytherins she played 'mother' to for a considerable portion of the school year. She wouldn't get in anybody's way and they could avoid her.

She was 'never any good for the civilised,' he said, and those words continued to return to her conscious so many times. She was unworthy, pathetic, useless. She knew he'd be rather pleased with her living arrangements in the castle, though there was another situation, which, if it ever came to fruition, would have left him positively ecstatic.

Being a muggle he'd never know, for muggles could neither see nor access Hogwarts. She supposed it was just as well. She needn't worry too much about him until she had to return home at the end of the month. Always the same… nothing ever changed. She could just hear his voice now.

Pausing with her hand on the door handle, she attempted to shake those words free from her mind, before entering her room.

It was about as cheerful as Spinner's End was on a good day. There was no joy even here.

Her dull eyes slowly scanned the room. Nothing had changed. She'd had little need for house-elves in her private quarters; she did all the cleaning herself and it was exactly as she had left it in June, save for a thin layer of dust, which she vanished with her wand, having closed the door behind her.

Ignoring the lounge itself, she ventured into the next room to clean herself up and get changed.

After a quick bathe, she dried herself off and opened her wardrobe. She only had two sets of robes; one of which Sirius had given her years ago as a congratulatory gift for her first year of teaching. She didn't wear the deep purple velvet now; hadn't for almost a decade. How could she after all that had happened? It would have betrayed the memories of her dearly departed children, and there wasn't a single day that went by when she didn't think of them.

She'd worn black these last nine years and it was only recently she added some colour to them; though admittedly of the silvery-grey variety.

The addition of colour, a term her son used rather loosely, had, in fact, been encouraged by the boy and it had been during a trip to Diagon Alley to purchase his supplies for his first year of school that he had withdrawn some extra gold to have a new set of robes made for her.

Rigel was perhaps the only good thing Dinah had; the one constant in her life. She was so fortunate to have him as a son.

He loved his mother to pieces, though, she hated to admit, she had a rather hard time believing it. Regardless, she knew he'd do anything to give her peace of mind; to see her happy.

After dressing and donning her shoes, she focused on her hair. What a mess. She didn't even have a hairbrush.

Running her fingers through it a few times, having dried it with magic, she began to fix it into a loose, low, plaited bun, before finishing it off with a hair comb adorned with a silver dove.

That was a sentimental piece, and it would have been strange for anyone to ever think that the dark Potions Mistress would have ever worn, let alone kept, anything of sentimental value. Sirius had given her that; said the dove represented her as a 'caged bird.'

In one respect she agreed with Sirius, but it had also meant disagreeing with Lily, who had reiterated that doves were birds of peace and, despite her upbringing - which the redhead had learned more of during her education at Hogwarts, and the presence of Dinah's baby told her more than enough in the end - Dinah was still very much a peaceful person, even with the occurrence of her own inner turmoil. Lily had also suggested that the Bird of Peace may have brought her some _semblance_ of peace; like a 'good luck' charm. Rather unfortunately, it had yet to provide her with a great deal of it, save, perhaps, for Rigel.

Returning to the living room, she removed June's Edition of _The Practical Potioneer_ from her bookcase, grabbed a few sheets of parchment and quill and sat at her desk along the back wall to make notes. She could at least be productive during the Waiting Game.

She often considered other people's experiences with potions and applied their findings to her own experimentation. She would try them out herself; report their effects and see if any positive changes could be made for improvement.

Of course, it was not to last and, not twenty minutes into her studies, she was summoned to the Headmaster's Office for a meeting.

With a fatigued, inward sigh, she abandoned the task at hand and set off for her destination.

As it had happened, there was something of a new addition to the school - the Philosopher's Stone.

Despite the Dark Lord's alleged demise a decade previously, Dumbledore had his concerns for the murderer's return. He knew of the Stone's power; how Voldemort would stop at nothing to gain immortality, and, of course, how much danger the entirety of both the Wizarding and Muggle Worlds would be in should he succeed.

The teachers, of course, were to protect the Stone at all costs, and had been instructed to provide numerous obstacles for potential thieves.

Dinah expected little else from the Headmaster, in truth; that he would leave it until the last minute.

She had left his office in somewhat of a foul mood. Not only had he left it until the last minute to tell her of his plans but she had discovered that the other teachers had played their part in the protection scheme over the course of August and all, bar hers, had been set up.

Returning to her domain, she threw the door open with such force it ricocheted off the wall, thus slamming back into place behind her, made her way back to her desk, took one look at her notes, screwed them up, tossed them behind her and grabbed yet more parchment before taking her seat, audibly sighing in aggravation and began scribbling the beginnings of a riddle.

By the time three hours had passed, the carpet in her living area had several new additions, which, riddle written, she proceeded to vanish with a flick of her wand, as she had done with the dust from earlier.

Only half-satisfied with the finished product, it would have to do. If the Headmaster didn't like it he could lump it; he wasn't the one doing it.

Abandoning her room, parchment in hand, she made her way down the damp corridor to the store cupboard and began examining the contents.

Choosing a selection of different potions, she returned to the Head's office, only for the aged wizard to instruct her to place the protection there herself.

Before the afternoon was out, Dinah had been attacked by a hellhound, almost strangled by a plant, chased by a room filled with flying keys on one of the old school broomsticks that she recalled had bucked her off twenty years previously and almost broke her neck, nearly had herself sliced in three during a dangerous game of wizard's chess and nearly clubbed to death by a troll before she was able to set up her potions riddle. Did the man seriously want her dead? The charms couldn't have been placed _after_ she had been able to set up the last protection?

Shaken following the ambush, Dinah set up her riddle and continued on her way, leaving the series of death-defying tasks behind her.

True enough for the other aspects regarding danger, not one of her chosen potions would cause a great deal of harm, though the implication was visible in the written word.

Fleeing the chamber, in a subtle state of distress, she retired once more to her quarters, though not before encountering a concerned Mediwitch, jovial Charms instructor and tipsy Divination teacher, who had attempted to forewarn her of her impending death in the night.

Dinah may not have had the Inner Eye and was, admittedly, sceptical over whether it was present in her colleague, but she knew when the wild-haired witch was having a genuine premonition or making a prophecy and when she wasn't.

But Dinah had little patience for fraudulent claims in that moment and strode away from the woman, heading right back to her own store cupboard. Now she had a migraine.

With a calming draught and pain relieving potion inside her, the 'Bat of the Dungeons,' as she had come to be known by many students, once more entered her living area, though continued through to her bedroom. She needed to clear her head.

Removing her shoes, she glanced at the clock on her bedside cabinet. Ten past four. Was she to have no rest before the students arrived?

Lying on the bed after what must have been half an hour, any effort to rest had been futile and she had resigned herself to the fact that she'd simply never get any peace that afternoon and lifted her head from the pillow, pain still prominent, and prepared herself for the journey to the Great Hall.

* * *

As expected, the short trek to the Great Hall was not without its problems. Peeves the Poltergeist had clearly decided to make an early appearance and had proceeded to taunt the Potions Mistress the moment she stepped on the Grand Staircase.

"Ooh-ooh!" he exclaimed, rhythmically. "If it isn't Whiner Dinah, the Greasy Dungeon Bat!"

' _Whiner Dinah_.' That's what the Marauders had called her all those years ago. She had forgiven Sirius, of course, despite never getting an apology. It had been enough that he had ceased the name-calling the moment they became an item. In turn, he had encouraged his friends to stop it, and they had, even if James, at least, had done so reluctantly. Unfortunately, of course, with their teaching Peeves to call her that, it wasn't nearly so easy to tell the conscious spirit to pack it in, unless one threatened to tell the Bloody Baron, the Slytherin House Ghost. Even then, of course, the taunter who flew erratically above Dinah's pounding head never took even him seriously in the end.

Rising above the juvenile insult, Dinah continued on her way to the Great Hall, leaving the cackling entity making rude noises in her wake.

The Great Hall itself hadn't changed for many years. It was just the same now as when she entered it for the first time; a stark contrast to the dark-haired witch herself.

Dinah would liked to have thought that she could have been as stable as the foundations she walked on, but couldn't bring herself to live in such delusion. She hadn't the same mindset she had all those years ago. She didn't have much hope anymore. Initially, Lily had been the one to give her hope, but, ultimately, the War had torn the two apart and, as it was, Lily had died for her baby. Dinah knew it was her fault; she'd been foolish enough to think that the man she followed might show mercy or compassion.

Sirius had later given her hope, but then he was carted off to Azkaban an innocent man. She'd given up hope on Sirius when she realised her pleas for his unjust imprisonment fell on deaf ears and any possible reprieve for him to walk away a free man was never going to happen.

She'd lost hope for Harry Potter's chance at a contented childhood, knowing full-well the extent of his Aunt's resentment toward Lily, and that such envy would surely be thrust onto him. Dinah's fight for his right to a decent upbringing also failed.

She'd lost hope with the deaths of Vega and Little Sirius. Vega wouldn't be coming through those double-doors tonight to be sorted into her House. Dinah frankly couldn't have cared where Vega would have gone at all, as long as she was happy and healthy. Remembering her daughter as she was, there was little doubt in Dinah's mind that her daughter would have been a Hufflepuff.

For Little Sirius she did not know. She didn't know him at all; he was taken too soon. He'd never even opened his eyes; never seen his Mummy's face. All that pain she'd experienced, only to wish for herself to die in his place.

And then there was Baby. She thought of him every day too and that was what she called him - Baby. She didn't know what happened to him. For all she knew they'd likely killed him themselves; they were so ruthless.

She could never forget the face of the young woman dressed all in pink with a sickening grin plastered all over her face, like a wolf in sheep's clothing; the Smiling Assassin. Her whole demeanour was flooded with glee at fourteen-year-old Dinah's distress.

She had hoped that perhaps they had found a nice family for Baby to go to. Surely there were families in abundance, magical and muggle alike, who would have loved to have had a baby boy. There was no way of knowing if her hopes and dreams for his happiness would ever come to pass, however. He was long gone now. It would be seventeen years on the twenty-seventh. He'd be a man in just under a month.

Truth be told, she didn't even know if he was a wizard at all. For all she knew he could have been a squib, but she wasn't about to stop loving him. He was her baby and, even under a different name with a different mother living a different life, he always would be.

Remorse so frequently set in these days. She had ignored him; rejected him, as though she knew at the time she couldn't keep him, even before such words were spoken. Oh, how she regretted it now.

But Rigel… she still had Rigel. He was her hope now.

All those years ago, as a first-year student, and she had been hoping for change; hoping for a chance to get away from the violence and ridicule she experienced in the home. That had been such foolish thinking, for it never left completely and it was only her surroundings and the people around her that changed; the situation never really altered.

With her mind actively reminiscing on things she'd much rather forget, she took her seat at the staff table at the far end of the Great Hall. No, the vast room had not changed, but she had. Her cynicism became much more noticeable to her colleagues the more they spoke to her, which was saying something in itself, for Dinah wasn't exactly a woman of words and generally kept herself to herself.

While her colleagues conversed amiably with each other, Dinah sat in silence; no communication from anyone. In one respect, it was something of a blessing. She didn't have anyone chewing her ear off and worsening her throbbing head.

* * *

The sound of excited teens filled the air with the entry of the returning students, Rigel among them.

Lifting her head, Dinah focused her eyes on the tall, curly-haired boy with raven black hair and warm grey eyes, as he playfully fooled around with the Weasley twins and their friend, Lee Jordan, who was to be the new quidditch (a magical sport played on broomsticks) commentator.

Rigel was so like Sirius. Same curly hair, same eyes, same values (his Gryffindor robes were proof enough of that.) He even had the same playful nature and knack for mischief, if slightly dampened down, likely due to his mother. And he had his father's straight teeth… and his nose… and even his ears. Were it not for the fact that Dinah had physically given birth to him she might almost have considered the prospect of Sirius having slept with the milkman.

Before the boys had even sat down four of her own Slytherins had made their move to start trouble.

With a sigh, and a glance at her ignorant colleagues, she strode from the table to the scene unfurling before her, where eight wands were already being prepared.

"Wands away," Dinah said slowly, as she took her stance between the two lines of boys, all significantly taller than herself, and who all reluctantly returned their wands to their pockets. "Would one of you care to explain?" she offered.

Receiving no reply, save for some awkward shuffling of feet and glares sent to one another, Dinah spoke again. "No? Then there is scarcely little reason for you to arm yourselves. Sit down."

In spite of her calm voice, all eight boys knew well enough not to push their luck with their Potions teacher, as they took their seats at their respective tables, sitting as far away from each other as possible, while Dinah returned to her seat at the head table.

The bearded Headmaster turned his attention to his young colleague. "Now, Dinah, what was that about?"

"Nothing of significance," was her blank-faced response.

As the mindless chatter continued by both teachers and students alike, Dinah remained silent, her eyes frequently switching between the golden double doors and the troublesome boys.

Eventually, the aforementioned golden doors opened and permitted entry to the new students. Dinah didn't want to believe that her daughter wasn't there, but it was painfully true. She wasn't now and never would be. She could only hope that Sirius never had to find out; it would kill him. Vega was his Princess; that's what he called her.

As the Head of Gryffindor led the new first years towards the end of the Hall, the chatter stopped and the focus fell upon a ratty old hat sat atop a three-legged stool. The bespectacled witch stopped to the left of the stool, and took a scroll in hand, upon which the students names were listed, as the unassuming object sang of the four Hogwarts Houses.

After applause from the inhabitants of the Great Hall, the Sorting Hat bowed in gratitude and the Deputy Headmistress spoke.

"Now, when I call your name you will come forth, I will place the Sorting Hat on your head and you will be sorted into your houses." Opening the scroll, she called the first name. "Abbott, Hannah."

A pretty girl with blond pigtails nervously hopped onto the stool, only for Professor McGonagall to drop the Sorting Hat over her eyes. She'd been there only for a short moment before the Hat shouted "Hufflepuff!" over the Great Hall, and the table in the robes with the black and yellow crest cheered for their new House member.

"Bones, Susan," was the next to be sorted.

 _Abbott… Bones… no "Black, Vega."_

Dinah's heart ached, but she couldn't allow anyone to know; to see. Her face remained expressionless, despite the agony in her heart. Then, however, her dark eyes fell upon a pair of green, hidden behind round glasses. The boy's hand went to his forehead as though he were pained, resulting in an expression of concern from the youngest Weasley boy. The boy's green eyes never left that of his new teacher, just as they hadn't at the hotel, despite the latter casting a glance sideways to her turban-headed colleague.

As Susan also made her way to the Hufflepuff table, Dinah held little interest in the remaining students, until "Potter, Harry" was called. Everyone was interested in his Sorting, though the boy himself appeared to be incredibly uncomfortable with all those eyes upon him.

He had been one of the more difficult students to sort, it seemed, for he was there considerably longer than the majority of his classmates.

Dinah wondered what the Sorting Hat was seeing. She recalled the object had struggled to sort her when she was in the same position. It had never mentioned any other House aside from Slytherin, of course, but, even with her nerves, she had heard the implication of other Houses from the voice in her ear. Was Harry experiencing the same problem?

Eventually, the Sorting Hat roared "GRYFFINDOR!" over the Hall and the aforementioned table cheered emphatically; Rigel, perhaps cheering the loudest.

Distracted once more by her own musings, she tuned out of the remainder of the Sorting, before the Headmaster stood and made a few announcements. Dinah herself wondered why the man announced the school grounds, admittedly with subtlety, as a literal death-trap. To tell a room full of teenagers not to venture to a certain part of the castle or grounds, surely it was evident that curiosity would get the better of a few too many students?

"Let the feast begin," he finished, as food appeared suddenly on the five long tables.

Dinah often considered the feast as something of a medieval-type custom, with the plates piled high with rich food. With every passing year she still expected the Headmaster to challenge someone to a joust.

While everyone else dug into their meals with great enthusiasm, Dinah ate like a bird.

She was still self-conscious about her eating habits in general, but she didn't eat as much as she used to. In fact, she'd eaten so little the last few weeks that she instinctively knew she'd be up in the middle of the night with her head over the toilet bowl.

Just a small slice of chicken and some veg was more than enough.

The Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was in conversation with her, though he did make her feel uneasy. She'd never been completely convinced by his nervous disposition.

She knew him vaguely as a peer, a student and now a colleague and she didn't feel comfortable with him regardless of whichever stage of life he happened to be in. But, she spoke to him out of courtesy.

* * *

Across the Great Hall, there was a great deal of talk (primarily about Harry Potter) but none so animated as that of a small group at the Gryffindor House table.

Questions were asked, certainly, one in particular which Rigel's ears perked up at.

"Say, Percy," Harry began, "that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell? I saw her at a hotel over the summer. What does she teach?"

"Professor Snape? Potions," the prefect answered, at which Rigel was rather amused. The first-year could just as easily have asked him; he'd been at the hotel too. "But everyone knows it's the Dark Arts she fancies. She's been after Quirrell's job for years."

Rigel knew his mother better than that. She hated the Dark Arts, if she was completely honest. It had taken so much away from good people, as well as herself. She loathed the Dark Arts. "That's only a rumour," he stated, calmly. "You can't believe everything you hear."

"She looks like she's into the Dark Arts," the youngest Weasley said, mouth full of chicken.

"Appearances can be deceptive," the grey-eyed teen stated, cryptically. Ron saw her at the Leaky Cauldron, along with the majority of his family. Surely she hadn't come across in such a manner at the time. The senior Weasleys didn't exactly give the impression she wasn't to be trusted, and they'd have set the example for their children.

"Is Professor Snape really your mother?" a girl with bushy, brown hair asked with intrigue.

After a short pause, Rigel answered. "She is indeed."

"What's she like?" The girl seemed rather curious.

"Well," he began, "she's my mother?" His tone of voice prompted subtle chuckles among the group. "There isn't much to tell really. She's just your average Mum… who happens to be a witch… and teach at a magical school…" He trailed off. There wasn't much to really be said.

"What's she like as a teacher?"

"You're full of questions, aren't you?" he smiled, good-naturedly. "Well…" he began, though was cut off by the redheaded twins.

"Frightening," they said in unison.

"You don't want to get on her bad side," Fred ( _or was it George?_ ) said.

"She can rip your head off," George ( _Fred?_ ) added.

"Oh, you know that's ridiculous," Rigel said, shaking his head at the twins, before turning his attention back to the girl. "Follow her instructions, don't hex people, don't use the M-word and you'll be fine. She's a pussycat really."

"Been dating Filch, has she?" Fred joked.

"Always wondered who Mrs. Norris was," George added.

"The plot thickens."

"Time for her - "

" - to come out - "

" - of the - "

" - broom cupboard," they finished together.

Rigel had honestly expected that. The end result had been inevitable; it wasn't even funny. A groan resounded from his vocal chords, as the girl spoke again.

"What's the M-word?" she asked, curiously.

"A word I don't wish to use," was the boy's response.

"Oh," was her response, as her eyes remained focused on the teacher. "She doesn't eat very much, does she?"

Rigel considered this girl very bold; he could understand why she'd been placed in Gryffindor.

"No," he replied, faintly, his eyes focusing on his mother who was nibbling slowly on a piece of chicken. "No, she doesn't."

The sight of her not eating properly always saddened him. She always had the bare minimum and gave him whatever she could, and she was far too proud to ask for help, unless it involved money that his grandfather so frequently demanded, but even then she was selective in her choice of aid.

He was brought back to reality by an exclamation of surprise from Ron, as the Gryffindor House Ghost made his appearance.

"Hello!" he greeted jovially. "How are you? Welcome to Gryffindor."

Simultaneously, several other ghosts entered the Great Hall, as Sir Nicholas began conversing with the students of his former House. As expected, the topic quickly changed to how he could be called 'Nearly-Headless,' followed by the demonstration Rigel had just seen for the third year running, which certainly put him off his dinner.

Ignoring the plate of food before him, of which the ghost looked at longingly, clearly missing the opportunity to enjoy it having been dead almost five centuries, Rigel once more turned his attention back to his mother. In one way, he found himself having to keep an eye on her because it was evident nobody else would and she certainly would never tell anybody she was struggling. People tended to ignore her; to act as though she didn't exist, but it's one thing her son could never do. In fact, it so often pained him to watch everyone ignore her needs when, in his mind, she needed more help than anyone.

* * *

Just before the school body was dismissed from the Great Hall, Dumbledore stood to announce that all would be singing the school song, as a gold ribbon burst forth from his wand and the lyrics appeared in the air. "Everybody, pick your favourite tune," he encouraged, as the student body sang. The cacophony of noise pained Dinah, as she wished only for her bed and complete silence.

She certainly didn't sing. She hadn't sung that song in four years. She hadn't sung _any_ song in four years; not since Vega died, and that was certainly a long four years.

As the Hall ceased singing, slowly all the students moved to leave, the teachers following suit; the four sub-Heads leaving for the House Common Rooms to greet the new first-years, as the others went about their own business.

Dinah had rushed her speech this year; she just wanted to get her head down and, no doubt, the first-year Slytherins likely didn't desire to listen her. Too many, Dinah suspected, had been raised with a certain mindset and, if their parents had said anything regarding the Potions Mistress herself, would likely have told them of her undesirable status. Why should pureblooded children express any desire to really listen to anything a 'filthy half-blood' had to say?

She left the Common Room, ignoring the whispers of 'undesirables' and retired to her quarters, having stopped off at her private store cupboard once more for another calming draught, pain reliever and a Dreamless Sleep potion.

Taking potions wasn't something she liked doing, but nobody would wish to deal with an irate migraine-induced Dinah Snape if she went without sleep.


	8. First Impressions

**A/N: Perhaps this has been a long time coming, but I had developed something of a case of Writer's Block. This may happen intermittently (just a forewarning.)**

 **Naturally, this fic is AU, but I have tried to keep in character, even with the differences to Severus Snape's persona (as a female, I imagine he would be quite different.)**

 **I could really do with a better summary for this fic, so if anybody has any suggestions, feel free to offer up your ideas.**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight: First Impressions**

Such a welcomed desire for rest was not to be, for Dinah, having taken so long for slumber to overcome her, woke with a start not forty minutes later.

Since that time, not yet two o'clock in the morning, she had been intermittently vomiting and anxiously pacing across the cold bathroom tiles.

Sleep was to evade her once more, it appeared, and no matter how many potions she might take to aid in the privilege of such a peaceful action, the opportunity was utterly futile. She knew she shouldn't have had that chicken leg — too much too soon.

Sparing little thought to her physical distress, however, her mind wandered to the son of her departed best friend. He was small in comparison to his peers. He was underfed, though Dinah knew that anyway. Had she not informed Dumbledore of that very fact a few weeks previously? The ageing wizard didn't appear to have shown a great deal of consideration for his young colleague's concerns; in fact, he was almost dismissive of them. Had he so little interest in the child's well-being?

The internalised frustration the woman felt towards the Headmaster prompted her to empty her stomach once more. Stress alone was enough to make anyone sick; not least of all the raven-haired potions teacher with the outwardly-calm demeanour.

Of course, she recalled the boy sitting at the table and noted that he seemed to be enjoying healthy conversation with those around him. Rigel was one of them.

Like his mother, he didn't always have a great deal to say — except when circumstances permitted — but that wasn't to say he was a total 'stick-in-the-mud.' Oh no, he had more charisma than she ever would — perhaps a little more like his father, though she couldn't say he'd ever possessed his father's propensity for bullying.

Oh, yes… Sirius had bullied her, as had his other friends (Remus Lupin perhaps not quite so much, though he'd never done a great deal to prevent the others from tormenting her.) It had at least eased off on Sirius' part at the close of her fifth year. James had gone too far and Sirius hadn't wasted a great deal of time in telling him so. Sirius had been fuming for days, from the very moment Dinah had gone to the Hospital Wing later that same day until a short time after she was reluctantly released by Madam Pomfrey.

To the end of her education, the vast majority of students who witnessed the initial exchange between the self-titled Marauders and herself would always make sure to remind her of the unpleasantries in any way they possibly could. If that weren't bad enough, too many of them knew what had happened two years earlier and that event was also enough leverage to torment her with.

Breaking from her thoughts, she rose from her position on the floor, steadying herself on the edge of the sink.

Not normally one for vanity, she stole a look at herself in the mirror — her hair a tangled mess, heavily-fatigued eyes, and her bones more than visible. Looking down to her left forearm, she saw it: the mark of her servitude. It was not quite so prominent as it had been all those years ago. Truth be told, it more likely resembled an awful burn scar these days, and she had received more than enough of those over the years.

Her nightdress was hanging off her; the same one Sirius had gifted her with a decade ago, and he'd given her a lot of gifts. (The man had honestly gone from loathing her in his youth to spoiling her rotten in adulthood.) It no longer sat comfortably on her shoulders and was now halfway down her arms, but remained in the same condition as the day she'd received it. It was the same with anything he'd ever given her.

Oh, but if Sirius could see her now he'd scarcely recognise her. Any light that ever made its way to her eyes had all but diminished now. Her only joy was the surviving child that connected them both, but there was enough light in him to make up for the lack of it in his mother.

Having flushed the toilet, she moved to wash her hands and brush her teeth. It was unlikely for her to have any sleep that night, so prepared herself for the morning.

* * *

Unable to face the prospect of eating breakfast, Dinah had entered the Great Hall only to hand out the student timetables among her Slytherins. There was more than enough whispering about her as she passed but she'd experienced so much of it over the years that she closed her ears off to it now.

From there, she had stolen a glance at her son engaged in conversation with his friends.

"Ugh! Double potions with Slytherin!" the youngest Weasley exclaimed. "They say Snape always favours them," he said to the bespectacled boy beside him.

The look on Rigel's face might almost have encouraged his mother to smile. "You _are_ pullin' my leg?" he said, an expression of utter bafflement overcoming his features. "Where on Earth did ya 'ear that twaddle?" From there his eyes fell on the twins, who were grinning beside him. "Ask a silly question…" he muttered to himself, rolling his eyes.

Such an action brought Rigel's focus onto the woman in question. Eyes widening, he gave her a look, which simply stated ' _What? Don't look at me._ '

The two broke eye contact, as a rather sheepish Rigel returned to eating his breakfast, and Dinah finished handing out the last of the timetables, before retiring to the Dungeons.

While the students and her fellow professors enjoyed their breakfast, Dinah revelled in her solitude as she hand-wrote the potion recipes for the day on the blackboard. She had little need for books these days, for she had done it for so long that all recipes were ingrained in her head. Not only that, of course, but as she had come to realise, many recipes were incorrectly dictated in the outdated books. True, her predecessor Professor Slughorn had no issue with them, but incorrectly-brewed potions could be responsible for all manner of problems in the long run. Dinah wasn't quite so surprised at Slughorn's lack of interest, for the man appeared to care more for one's social standing than occurrences in his classroom.

The wizard did, of course, express an interest for talented students, but he'd much rather have had connections to strong social circles and hierarchies. Lucius Malfoy was one such student, though he had fallen out of favour with Slughorn once the latter discovered his support of the Dark Lord.

Dinah herself was a member of the Slug Club — as it was so named by it's founder — but had long-since been rejected by her Head of House. Was it her fault? Perhaps. She was a talented potions student (quite possibly the best in her year) but was still a far cry from having been considered a 'favourite.' Lily was a favourite, and how could she not be? She was attractive, talented and incredibly kind, if a bit cheeky. She was charismatic and that was something Slughorn had picked up on. The same could never be said for Dinah — she had all the charm of a flattened flobberworm.

No, 1974 had been the end of the Slug Club for Dinah. She got herself 'in the club,' as her peers so delicately put it, and they were not referring to their potions professor either. Pregnancy was reason enough for having the privilege of Slug Club membership revoked. Lily herself had refused to go to another meeting after finding out Dinah had been rejected. Dinah hadn't wanted her friend to go without just because she was stupid enough to get herself in such a state, of course, but Lily was stubborn. She did return to the Slug Club a year later after Easter break, but not without a great deal of coaxing from her teacher.

As she wrote the last instruction on the fifth board for her late-afternoon third-year Gryffindor and Slytherin class, her first group of students began queuing outside the door. First day of term and first-year Slytherins and Gryffindors. Whoever decided to put the students in robes of green and red together in classes didn't have a great deal of sense.

Placing the chalk back in her drawer, she scrolled her board down to the first-year lesson plan and made her way to the back of the classroom.

"Enter," she said plainly, pulling the door open.

It was evident that the Gryffindors appeared to have been taking the rumours seriously, as they filed in in complete silence. The Slytherins, too, entered in silence, though Dinah could sense their distaste for their Head of House.

As they all took their seats, Dinah confidently made her way back to the front of the classroom.

"You'll not be needing your wands in this class," she instructed, as a fair few reluctant children returned their casting devices to their robes. "You are here to study the subtle science and exact art of potion making and, thus, will not be requiring the use of incantations."

All eyes were upon her. Although she spoke in little above a whisper, she had the attention of her students. Was it her lack of volume, her intonation or the prospect of learning the art that prompted such focus? She'd never known, but students were usually quiet in her classes — or, rather, the first-years were, at least. She perhaps couldn't say the same for certain third-year students.

"I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses," she informed, silkily. "I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory and even put a stopper in death."

Over her own low voice, she could hear the faint scratching of quill against parchment. Scanning the room, her eyes fell on Harry Potter himself, the very source of the familiar sound.

"Mr. Potter," she called, in a somewhat questioning tone, carefully making her way over to the boy's desk, silently settling her palms on either side. Harry didn't flinch, merely continued writing. "Mr. Potter, have you something to share with the class?"

The bushy-haired girl to his right nudged him and he ceased his writing. Returning his quill to his inkwell, he raised his eyes and met those of his teacher. There was a distinct air of familiarity there. It was, admittedly, painful for Dinah to look into the owner of Lily's eyes.

"Just making notes, Professor," he replied, permitting his teacher access to his parchment, upon which were written the very words she herself had spoken.

Glancing among the sea of first-year heads, Dinah couldn't very well say all her students had prepared in such a manner. True, it might have been deemed rude at first, but not one other child had taken the time to take heed of her words.

Slowly, her hands slid off Harry's desk, as she folded her arms and returned to the front of the classroom.

"How many of you," she questioned, taking the focus away from Harry, "have taken time to study over the summer?" Receiving no reply, except an expression of indignation from Ron Weasley, she continued. "Let's see what you know."

Scanning the room, she searched for three participants, regardless of whether they were willing or not. "Mr. Longbottom," she called, and a chubby Gryffindor squeaked in fright. Surely he wasn't afraid of her? "Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" True though her voice might not have been quite so demanding, she was nonetheless rather intimidating.

"I-I-I don't know, P-Professor," he stammered in a watery voice, quivering in fear.

Dinah was somewhat taken aback by the boy's reaction. Surely she wasn't quite so frightening? Why, hadn't she seen him as a baby, when Frank and Alice had been kind enough to invite herself, Sirius and their children around? Hadn't he loved being held by her? Hadn't he cried when she left? He hadn't been so scared then. It seemed he cried now solely for her presence in the same room.

Thinking no more of it, she focused once more on the boy-who-had-been-previously-taking-notes. "Mr. Potter, where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"

Harry didn't cry; he just looked rather confused. If he were anything like his father, he'd have told her to check the store cupboard, but it seemed such a thought hadn't even entered his mind.

"I don't know, Professor," was his reply, infinitely more confident than Neville Longbottom.

Well, it appeared the Gryffindors, bar one, perhaps didn't recall a great deal from their books. Either that, or they hadn't taken a great deal of time to study.

For the moment, Dinah ignored the bushy-haired girl with her hand completely vertical, as she focused on a member of her own house.

"Miss Parkinson, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

It seemed Pansy Parkinson didn't know either. Her reply had been rather flippant; quite rude, in fact, when compared to the Gryffindor boys before her. The girl's tone had prompted a warning from her Head of House. No house points were taken, but Professor Snape made sure she got her message across regarding disrespect.

"Perhaps you know, Miss Granger?" Dinah questioned, focusing on the girl who seemed more than relieved to be putting her hand down and proving herself.

"Professor," the girl began, formally, "if you were to add powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, you would get a powerful sleeping potion knowing as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and will save you from most poisons and monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite."

It appeared the girl had not only studied during the intermittent period between the end of her own muggle education and the beginning of her magical one, but she also seemed to have memorised the potions text.

"Correct, Miss Granger," the teacher said, in an even tone. "Three points to Gryffindor."

As Dinah moved to stand behind her desk, all the students mouths fell open. Contrary to what they'd been told, apparently, Professor Snape didn't favour the Slytherins. Hermione Granger had answered three questions correctly and her knowledge had been rewarded. Needless to say, the Slytherins themselves were quite disgusted. It was almost as if the Head of Slytherin had betrayed her own House.

"Your instructions are on the blackboard," she informed her students, bringing their attention to the device in question. "Follow them just so and you'll not go far wrong. You may begin." That said, she watched the first years leave their seats to begin their preparation, before seating herself down and pulling the loose parchment towards her to begin writing future lesson plans.

Professor Snape seemed so engrossed in her own task that were another adult present in the room, they might have called her out for negligence. On the contrary, she had eyes everywhere, and Neville Longbottom's melted cauldron certainly didn't escape her notice.

Rising from her seat, she approached the scene of the incident.

"Mr. Longbottom, am I to understand you added the porcupine quills while it was still on the burner?" she asked, her tone in no way accusatory.

"It wasn't his fault, Miss," Hermione Granger announced. Evidently the girl witnessed something.

Slowly, Dinah inclined her head in the general direction of her Slytherins, whom were sniggering at their classmate.

As the students all started to stand on their seats to avoid the fizzing flow of spilt potion, their teacher vanished away the substance before it could do any lasting damage. The same, unfortunately, could not be said for Neville, who now had boils all over his face.

Her eyes still on the Slytherins, she whipped a handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to the snivelling child and spoke to the Irish boy he'd been working with. "Mr. Finnigan, kindly take Mr. Longbottom to the Hospital Wing." With that, the two boys headed out of the door. "I shall see you after class," she told the three Slytherin boys in front of her, before returning to her desk, giving her class one look which encouraged them to continue with their potions.

* * *

By teatime, there was talk among the first-year Gryffindors regarding their potions teacher, coupled with a great many glares from the Slytherin House Table.

"I'm telling you," Ron said. "She took five points from Slytherin and gave Hermione three."

The twins could scarcely believe their ears. Of course, they knew what their teacher was really like, having had her for the third year in a row.

"Oh, me!" Fred exclaimed, hand on his heart.

"Oh, my!" George added, dramatically. "Why, can it be true?"

"This is the third year we've had her for potions and she's not once handed a single point out to us." Fred feigned shock.

Rigel rolled his eyes, as the eldest Weasley currently at Hogwarts spoke up. "Perhaps you haven't done anything to deserve it."

"Oh, what could that possibly mean, brother, dear?" Fred asked, knowing full well what it meant. After all, he and his brother had something of a knack for pranking their peers or messing around in their classes.

"Did you not attempt to have the potions classroom fumigated in January?" Percy reminded his brothers.

Fred's eyes lit up. "Ah, the Mushroom Incident," he grinned, excitedly. "I remember it well."

"Great days, eh, brother?" George nudged his doppelgänger.

Rigel groaned. A fine birthday present that had been for his mother. The dungeons had been closed for three days while she scraped the gunge off the walls by hand. Admittedly, she had help from Mr. Filch, the school caretaker, but he didn't exactly make for pleasant company on the best of days. The Slytherin Common Room and dormitories had also been closed off and the serpent-crested students had kicked up something of a stink over having to sleep in the Great Hall; admittedly, a stink quite unlike the one in the Dungeons which smelt most foul.

"Oh, you may have heard of suicide—" Fred began.

"— or homicide—" George continued.

"— or matricide—"

"— or patricide—"

"— dear Firsties, but never before have you heard of—" they joshed in unison.

"— fungicide," Rigel sighed, in a monotone voice. " _Fun_ gicide, really? There wasn't a great deal of _fun_ in it."

"Hey, it was good while it lasted," Fred grinned, cheekily.

"Stank a bit though," George added. "Smelt like someone dipped Percy's socks in the contents of a dungbomb."

"Do you mind?" Percy asked, agitated. The reference of stench regarding his footwear was evidently embarrassing for the prefect.

"No, I babysit," the younger twin replied.


	9. Battleground

**A/N: First update in a while, I admit. Suffering with a smidge of the old Writer's Block. I sort of know what turn I want to take with this fic but trying to get it off the ground can be somewhat difficult.**

 **I'm not entirely sure what to say of this chapter. I'm even getting Writer's Block writing Authors Notes now; it's really rather ridiculous.**

 **I hope I can get this fic going properly soon.**

* * *

 **Chapter Nine: Battleground**

Owls swooped into the Great Hall laden with parcels and letters for the majority of Hogwarts' residents.

In all honesty, the dark-haired woman on the far end of the teachers' table would much rather have not received anything at all. Ever-so-subtly she grimaced, as a newspaper and four envelopes were dropped on the empty plate before her. Her semi-decent mood had now dissolved into a state of passive-aggressive irritation.

She didn't need to read the writing on those white paper envelopes; she knew exactly who they were from. Sliding them off the table, she placed them in a deep inside-pocket of her robe — an action which went unnoticed by a vast majority of Hogwarts' residents — and turned her attention to the newspaper before her.

Headline news stated a break-in at Gringotts'. Strange, however, that not a single thing had been taken, though the article announced that the alleged vault had been emptied earlier the same day.

So that was why Dumbledore wished for that death trap on the third-floor? That was why he sent her on a voyage fraught with monstrous animals, plants prone to provoke strangulation; risk of getting her head bashed in by a troll—? Was the man mad?

He informed the entire student body that the third floor corridor was out of bounds. That, in itself, was a mistake. The first thing any child would do would be to question why it was forbidden in the first place and seek out the answer for themselves. Well, at least, she could certainly think of seven students who would have done so — one dead, one _believed_ dead, one behind bars, one living as a recluse and three at the school. And if the child of her nemesis was anything like his father, he, too, would be curious of its nature.

' _You'd better not_ ,' she seethed to herself, eyes trained on her son at the Gryffindor table, never once letting her focus slip, even as she irately, yet subtly, buttered some toast and stabbed herself with the knife.

Silently admonishing herself for her lapse in concentration, she erased evidence of injury with her napkin and delicately ate her breakfast. She had been a delicate eater for quite some time now; had been since Lily had shown her what decent table manners were, following the continuous abuse regarding her undesirable habits. These days, of course, she had more of a delicate stomach and, as such, her table manners weren't so frequently questioned.

* * *

"With all due respect, Minerva, I don't think Mr. Potter should be rewarded for disobeying a teacher," Dinah said, hands on her colleague's desk.

As it had turned out that day, the first-year Gryffindor and Slytherin flying lesson (again, Dinah wondered who decided that those two Houses should ever have classes together for all the trouble they caused) was not without it's fair share of excitement.

Young Neville Longbottom had been presented with, most unfortunately, the very same broomstick that almost broke Dinah's own neck twenty years previously. That most temperamental of brooms; the one Sirius and his friends had called 'Bucky.' In fact, following her own flying disaster, the Marauders themselves had called Dinah 'Bucky' until the following Christmas.

As Madam Hooch had taken the tearful boy to the Hospital Wing, Harry Potter was in the air having what could only be described as a 'broom duel' with Draco Malfoy from what she'd heard so far. She had yet to hear the whole story.

"With all due respect, Dinah," the Transfiguration teacher responded, with a raised eyebrow, "Mr. Potter caught another student's property following a fifty-foot dive."

The Potions professor sighed. "And what, pray tell, was Mr. Potter _doing_ with another student's property?"

"As I understand it, Mr. Longbottom's Remembrall was thrown by Draco Malfoy who was _also_ in the air at the time."

"Minerva," Dinah said, through gritted teeth, her patience wearing thin, "as you understand it, why was Draco Malfoy in the air with Mr. Longbottom's Remembrall?"

"Perhaps, Dinah," McGonagall responded, sighing heavily, "that's a question for Mr. Malfoy. As he is one of yours, I trust you will deal with him accordingly."

"And how do you propose to discipline Harry Potter?" Dinah said, shaking her head. "By rewarding him with a position on the Gryffindor Quidditch team."

"We needed a new seeker," the older woman replied, quite plainly.

"'We needed a new seeker?'" Dinah repeated, disbelievingly. "That's your argument, is it? 'We need more Quidditch players because Slytherin's won the Cup several years running?' Oh, poor Gryffindor," she mocked. "Do let me leave now, Minerva, before I burst into tears."

The irate Potions Mistress spun on her heel and moved to leave the Transfiguration classroom. Professor McGonagall had neither moved from her seat nor changed her expression.

"Five points from Slytherin for mocking a colleague," Minerva said almost inaudibly, a slight smirk gracing her aged features.

"Oh, bugger off!" was Dinah's response, as she stalked through the door, slamming it in her wake, only to be greeted by her son walking the opposite way.

"Hi, Mum. Y'alright?" he grinned, though his expression contorted into one of confusion soon enough.

"That's _Professor Snape_ to you," she snapped, whipping her head round only to admonish the teen before returning to her anger-induced journey back to the dungeons.

Rigel watched his mother go with a rather bemused expression. "You got a bowtruckle in your bloomers?" he asked, thankful that she hadn't heard him, before entering the Transfiguration classroom regarding his latest essay.

* * *

Dinah didn't actually go to the dungeons. Instead, she took a walk to the post office in Hogsmeade. It was perhaps a blessing for both the faculty and students because she wasn't feeling exceptionally calm that day and was ready to bite the head off anyone who crossed her path; even half-giants in wooden huts were not exempt for the woman's ire. Sirius once said all short women had an even shorter fuse, which she hadn't taken too lightly at the time.

"Next!" the clerk called, as the little old man in front of her shuffled from the queue, prompting Dinah to move forward.

"One muggle first-class stamp please," she said, fighting the urge to groan at what was to be coming in the not-so-distant future from the writer of those letters she'd received that morning.

"23 knuts," was the plain response, as the employee slid a solitary stamp under the window, which Dinah agitatedly affixed to the letter in her hand, an action which didn't go unnoticed by the man who became rather uncomfortable.

She'd spent most of the day writing that thing; sacrificing the grading of students' essays solely to appease her father. She'd simply have to work through the night on those papers.

Delving into the pocket of her robes, she fumbled around frantically searching for money. At last she came up with one lone sickle. It was her last. The rest of her money she was unable to sacrifice, for there was a hand-written cheque in there for her father (as demanded) and she was lucky to scrape two galleons together to put aside for Rigel's birthday present in November.

Defeated, she slid the letter back under the screen.

"It'll be collected at five," he said, as he absently placed it in the large bag to his right; his concerned eyes never once leaving Dinah's person. Handing her the six bronze coins he owed her, he whispered so no one could hear. "I hope things get better for you. Take care." With a weak smile, he bade her farewell.

* * *

Upon her return to Hogwarts that afternoon, Dinah stopped off at the Forbidden Forest to collect a few potions ingredients. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea, of course, for the Forbidden Forest was one of the many places at Hogwarts that made her miserable. She was almost killed by a stray acromantula (which just happened to be bigger than _she_ was; not that she'd have had any reason to suspect why it couldn't at least have been a newborn) during her second year of teaching, while replenishing her stocks. Were it not for the art of transfiguration she'd scarcely have got away with life.

A simple 'Pullus' had resulted in less of a painful death and more of a quick fondle with the acromantula-come-goose. Oh, she'd had her fair share of injuries and was unable to sit down for a considerable time (a fact Minerva McGonagall reminded her of every chance she got) but she was still here. Touch wood, she had yet to be discovered by King Arachnid himself who may likely have been confused to find fowl in his lair, in addition to the disappearance of one of his many children. (Of course, it would never have surprised Dinah if the vengeful monster had eaten the transfigured goose without realising.)

As of the current day, however, she seemed to have once again evaded capture by Mr. Big-Black-Thing-With-Long-Spindly-Legs, as she collected horklumps for juicing later.

Before she knew where she was, however, an uncharacteristic scream erupted from her oral cavity, as she was knocked forward, landing on the spiky mushrooms and beaten about the head by the very thing that had just managed to ram itself up her backside.

Things were thrown at her from all directions, as mischievous laughter surrounded the area.

"Pack it in!" she seethed, looking up to discover herself being physically abused by a mob of bowtruckles joyriding a rogue broomstick.

Getting to her feet — horklump needles piercing her chest, legs and arms — she scouted around for her wand, which had rolled away from her.

Ignoring her pain, she scrambled over to where it lay. Reaching out, a giggling bowtruckle snatched it and ran around Dinah in circles.

"If you don't watch it," she warned, pointing her finger at the wooden thief, "I'll do a Finnigan and blow you to smithereens." Comparing herself to a first-year Gryffindor with a propensity for pyrotechnics was perhaps a rather foolish action. After all, Dinah could scarcely say she'd ever set herself on fire or blown up a cauldron. That said, given the circumstances, she could do a lot of damage in anger.

The tree-dwelling creature possessed little desire to cooperate, even after chasing it several times around the area, which served only to wear the Potions Mistress out. "What are you doing, woman?" she admonished herself. "You are a witch and you are chasing a twig. How pathetic do you have to be? Accio bowtruckle!" she exclaimed and, despite her lack of wand, the impish being was pulled back towards her, hitting her square in the face with a thud, causing her to stagger backwards and land squarely on a horklump.

With a scream of frustration, she wrestled with the bowtruckle, who clearly had no intention of returning the wand to its rightful owner. With a sigh, she looked around and said, "What's that?" indicating a centaur in the distance, which certainly gave the small creatures enough of a distraction for Dinah to seize her wand. "Ha!" she smirked, simply, picking up the bowtruckle and carefully placing it on the ground.

Slowly, and with _literal_ pins and needles, she got to her feet and focused her attention on the creatures lined up along the handle of the broom, which Dinah winced at, upon realising exactly where it had come from. "Oh, _why_?" she asked, glaring at the rotten thing before her. "Why _you_? Seriously? 'Hello, Dinah. Ma name's Bucky. Mind if I beat the stuffin' out o' y' again?'"

With that, another piece of bark hit Dinah on the head. With a sigh, she aligned herself to duel. "Flipendo!" she exclaimed, as a jet of bright blue light burst from her wand, knocking the four bowtruckles off the broom like skittles. "Clear off, the lot o' ya. Leave me alone!" she cried, as the creatures fled.

With a heavy sigh, she readied herself to leave, dishevelled though she was. Her hair was half-loose and her semi-intact bun was halfway down her back. Needles were sticking out of every visible orifice, blood dripping from her bashed nose and she could barely walk straight.

"I will never touch you again," she stated, angrily, sneering in the general direction of the highland cactus, as the herd of prickly horklumps just sat there gloating at their victory. And with that, she left the Forbidden Forest.

* * *

Bucky, as expected, had been only too happy to follow the battered woman, impaling her repeatedly for attention. After about two hundred yards, she was so genuinely annoyed that she seized hold of the broomstick and stormed off to find Madam Hooch, the flying teacher, and the very person Dinah had decided to hold personally responsible for her recent misfortune.

It was quite by chance, she found her colleague locking up the storeroom.

"Rolanda!" she called, aggressively. It was near impossible to control her temper now. Not only had she just suffered a humiliating beating by five creatures less than a foot-tall, a mound of squishy, spiky things and a temperamental piece of magical engineering, but she was also very poor, very tired and very hungry. "Rolanda, I wish to make a complaint."

"Well, this is the flying department. Go to Dumbledore," the older woman said, sharply.

"Oh, no, I wish to complain to _you_ , Rolanda," she said, venom dripping off every syllable. "Pray tell, when did the school broomsticks last have a service? Fifty years ago? Perhaps it's time for some new ones."

"The Ministry pays for them, Di," the flying instructor informed her colleague, as though the fact were completely plain.

Dinah sighed and rolled her eyes. "Well, as per usual, Dinah is the last to know _everything_ that goes on this castle. Does it not strike you as strange that an organisation with such vast pots of wealth are somehow conveniently unable to afford basic broom care and, or, health and safety regulations to avoid children succumbing to injury or, in more serious situations, even death?"

"Not every child is a natural flyer, as much as I wish they were, Di. We've had these same broomsticks donkeys' years and I've never seen an issue that can't be fixed with a good helping of Skele-Gro."

Dinah sighed, defeated. "Not even this one?" she said, a pathetically-pleading expression on her face, as she indicated the aged broomstick in her left hand.

"Looks alright to me," the white-haired woman replied, nonchalantly, after a rapid visible perusal of the transportation device.

With a deep breath in attempt to quell her anger, Dinah replied, "Is this not the broom which is responsible for Mr. Longbottom's broken wrist? The very broom, I might add, which, twenty years ago, almost _broke my neck_?" Speaking with deliberation, she'd hope she might get the message across.

She didn't get the message across.

"Well, it didn't, fortunately for you," was Hooch's response, which served only to outrage the Potions Mistress. "Dinner's being served shortly," she added, sharply, sneakily changing the subject. "Just fancy Beef Wellington tonight. Meat, pastry and mushrooms. Lovely!"

Rolanda's mouth was watering at the very thought of her future dinner, as she turned to leave. Dinah, however, was positively disgusted at the mere mention of the big-headed fungus.

"So that's it then?" Dinah shrugged, having all but given up. "No cause for concern; we'll just let eleven-year-olds all fall to their deaths every September. Accidents like this happen everyday."

It appeared, however, that the hawk-eyed Hooch hadn't heard her, though turned to look at her. Taking in her colleague's bedraggled appearance, she offered what was assumed to be solid advice.

"Do something about that Dinah. You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards." With that, the woman was off.

"Well, _thank you_ , Rolanda. I'll remember that the next time I make the front cover of _Witch Weekly_ ," she spat, before turning her attention to the store cupboard, which, appropriately enough, was locked. It was at this point she began staring at her wand. "I could do it, couldn't I? I could kill her. I could kill those bowtruckles. I could kill all those acromantulas. We'd never be poor again; just one pint of acromantula venom would feed us for a month, wouldn't it? Why am I even talking to you? You can't talk back; you're a piece of wood which just _happens_ to have some sort of attachment to me, aren't you? See, it's not everyone else that's the problem; it's _me_ ," she said with finality. "And now you're talking to yourself, aren't ya, y' dingbat? You're crazy. You argue with trees, you get impaled by mushrooms. You're not normal, woman!"

With a sigh, she switched the broom from her left to her right, and her wand from right to left. ' _Switching spells_ ,' Rigel would have called it if he'd been present.

"And _you're_ more trouble than you're worth, you are," she admonished the long-handled wooden (albeit failed) sweeping brush. "Perhaps you'd be of better use to Argus. Alohomora."

Returning her wand to her robes, she pulled the now-unlocked door open, only to go crashing to the floor, buried beneath a bundle of brooms. With a yowl of pain, she felt horklump needles plunge further into her skin.

* * *

With even broomsticks now conspiring against her, Dinah waddled — unfortunately not quite in as ladylike a manner as she would have liked — back to the main castle, with the aim of making her way to her quarters. The last thing she wanted to see now was people and the school Healer Poppy Pomfrey was at the top of her hit-list, considering that the horklump juice (which she never got) was to go into medicinal potions for her stocks. Oh, initially she had blamed Rolanda, of course, for the broomstick fiasco, but Poppy was the one who was really at fault in Dinah's mind.

Most unfortunately, for Hogwarts' resident potioneer, any chance she could have had at avoiding people was all for naught, as she was stopped in the Entrance Courtyard by Sybill Trelawney, who had at that precise moment decided it was the perfect time to predict Dinah's death (something to do with being stabbed several times over.) Dinah did her best to ignore the students in the surrounding area laughing at her appearance and made to push past her colleague, throwing the double doors open, wiping out a grand total of three second-years, a fourth-year, the Head Boy, the caretaker and his cat.

Amid gales of laughter at the state of her, she stalked up to the third floor with the intent of visiting the Headmaster to ask for an advance on her salary. Having such a bad day, she was inclined to even ask him for a raise for her trouble, but that would never happen.

She left the office in fiery fury, having been refused this one advance. So that meant no more money for Rigel's birthday present, no more money for her father (which he was constantly demanding — Dinah never did _anything_ for him, apparently) and no money to visit the nearest apothecary for ingredients, following the day's disastrous visit to the Forest and she, herself, never possessing any desire to raid the greenhouses.

"Twenty points from Ravenclaw!" she barked, causing the two students clad in blue and bronze who, until that point, had been contentedly chatting outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

"What for?" one of the girls asked, as she and her friend exchanged confused expressions. They had neither said nor physically committed any offence against their teacher.

"Loitering!"

"Ooh, er, someone's on the war path," the brunette whispered.

"Make it twenty-five!"

The two girls remained silent until she was out of earshot and ascending the stairs to the fourth floor, at which point the pair of them burst out laughing.

Throwing the door to the Hospital Wing open, Dinah stood beneath the frame (which, considering the luck she'd had that day, it might just as well have collapsed on top of her) like a woman possessed.

"I will _never_ touch _horklumps again_ ," she informed the mediwitch, threateningly.

Madam Pomfrey finished smoothing down her last bed and turned to face the dark-haired woman. "What in the world happened to you?" she asked, deeply concerned as she approached the injured professor. "Sit down, Dinah," she said, leading her to the nearest bed.

"I'd prefer to _stand_ if you don't mind," she replied, jerking her prickle-filled elbow away from the healer.

"Nonsense!" Poppy exclaimed, pushing her down on the bed and turning to retrieve something, not noticing the visible pain she was in or hearing the high-pitched squeak of her distressed cry.

As she returned, she noticed the sheer number of Dinah's collection of needles and her watering eyes.

"Dear me, Dinah, what in Merlin's name have you done to yourself? Don't cry. We'll sort you out," she said, removing the needles from Dinah's legs.

"I'm not crying," she seethed, "I just happen to have them up the jaxy!"

"On your knees," Pomfrey said, once the last needle was out and Dinah reluctantly, and with a great deal of pain, did as she was told, while her colleague began the pain-staking process of removing the contents of Dinah's posterior.

Once more, the doors burst open. ' _What now_?' Dinah thought, with a great deal of humiliation, as she aggressively shot a spell at the modesty curtain, which performed a protective shield around the bed. Nobody else needed to see what the Potions Mistress had going on; Poppy was more than enough.

With a bit of a waddle, Dinah left the Hospital Wing. Students were still laughing at her misfortune, as she made her way down to the dungeons once and for all.

* * *

Naturally, she just had to be stopped by Filius Flitwick, who had apparently noticed the significant point loss for Ravenclaw House, before a fortnight was barely out.

"Might you enlighten me, Dinah? A twenty-five point loss when we had only twenty-four to start with?" he questioned.

With a defeated sigh, she gave him the answer he'd likely have been hoping for. "Reinstate them," she said, simply, and continued on her way. He never got his explanation but Ravenclaw got their points back.

* * *

Before she was scarcely through the final corridor on the way to her quarters, she heard an unmistakable call of "Mum?"

Couldn't people just leave her alone?

With a sigh, she turned to face her son. "Rigel?"

"Are you alright?" he asked, with utmost concern, slowly stepping forward to approach the unapproachable. He wasn't scared of her; she just seemed to have a hard time tolerating his presence. He had his suspicions why but, as of yet, he couldn't very well confront her on them.

"Not particularly, but I shall live," she replied, plainly. "I'm going to bed to wake up." With her hand on the doorknob, she noticed the look he gave her and ushered him inside.

Rigel perched himself on the end of the wooden coffee table in front of the couch. Precisely why he couldn't simply sit on the sofa like a normal person was a mystery to his mother.

Closing the door, Dinah took it upon herself to lean on the edge of her desk, before throwing herself forward in pain.

"Do I really need to ask why everyone's been laughin'?" he asked, suppressing a grin. "I'm sorry for what I said this afternoon."

"About the bowtruckle in my bloomers?"

"Seriously? You heard that?"

"I'm your mother. I know how your mind works." With a pause, she spoke again. "You weren't far wrong. The fact that I am currently unable to sit down would suggest so."

For a few moments, Rigel became quite quiet and Dinah attempted to press her son for information regarding his real purpose for seeking her out.

"How much money did he want?" he said, finally.

In an instant, Dinah's face contorted into one of malice for the man in question. "That does not concern you, Rigel," she said, through gritted teeth.

"It affects me too, Mum," the teen said, his eyes meeting those of his mother. "He's the reason you're so miserable. You used to laugh and smile and sing. I haven't forgotten, you know. You've not done any of that since V—" he broke off. He couldn't speak to her; not about that. Casting his eyes downwards to think for a moment, he eventually raised his head once more. "Mum, you might find it very hard to believe, but I love you. Stop letting him bully you. Next time he demands money just say no. You're _starving_ because of him. I've seen you in the Great Hall. You barely eat, and I never saw you touch anything over summer. If Dad was here he'd never allow it."

"Yes, well your father _isn't_ here, is he?" the woman spat, eyes locked with those of her son, as though challenging a bull to a fight.

With a deep sigh, Rigel got to his feet. "Why are you so cold? Why don't you open your heart to anyone? There's nothing shameful in having feelings, Mum. If you feel like rubbish, show it. Cry. You never know; you might feel better for it."

With caution, he made his way over to his mother, whose expression was nothing far short of disbelief. He was honestly giving her permission to show the world how weak she was; how unstable she was.

"Not once have you ever pressured me to stop crying," he said. "You wouldn't even say meaningless words when I was; you'd just hold me until I stopped. While it's been a while, I still remember, Mum." He paused. "Why is it okay for me to be upset but not you? You _do_ matter; in spite of what _he_ says."

Tentatively, he reached his hand out to take his mother's in his own, though she jerked hers away and promptly moved to the other side of the room at what was more likely a sprint than anything else.

As much as it hurt her child, he knew she had a great deal of trouble being touched or having affection demonstrated to her.

The pair fell into somewhat of an awkward silence, before the boy spoke up once more, in an attempt to relieve the tension.

"I had Care of Magical Creatures this morning," he said, noncommittally.

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Well, I'd call it interesting, I suppose. After all, it's only been my third lesson. Professor Kettleburn said today we'll be studying acromantulas tomorrow."

If Dinah's eyes weren't quite so black, they might surely have turned red with rage at her son's comment. "What?" she spat.

"Professor K—"

"I'm well aware what you said, Rigel!" she seethed, causing the boy to step back, on the off-chance that she decided to go on a rampage. Yet another colleague on her list of people she had no respect for that day. She'd surely get him later on.

Rigel was at something of a loss for words. "Well, er—" he stammered. "I-I-I'll just be going then—?"

With that, he bolted through the door before she could snap at him to stop impersonating Quirrell.

* * *

She hadn't particularly wished to go to dinner that evening either. She was probably too angry to eat, in truth, but Dumbledore would have only insisted she be present.

Ignoring the many eyes — and, indeed, the hushed voices — all focused on her in that moment, Dinah, with great care, took her usual seat at the staff table. Glaring at the Hall full of people, she dared anyone — colleague or student — to speak directly, or perform some other action, to or against her.

Rather awkwardly, everyone refocused their attention to anywhere but at her, the occasional snicker sounding from the House tables.

She, in turn, focused her attention on the numerous people who had annoyed her that day:

— Her father, with his incessant writing and unreasonable demands.

— Harry Potter with his rule-breaking, which might have quite easily ended his life but didn't.

— Draco Malfoy who she was led to believe was the source of the drama — and who she would pull aside later that evening.

— Minerva McGonagall, who rewarded the Gryffindor rule-breaker to satisfy herself in the hopes of snagging the Quidditch Cup at the end of the year.

— Poppy Pomfrey who had been responsible for her painful predicament and which had ended in the ongoing embarrassment — ignoring the humiliation of having the medi-witch pull spikes from her backside.

— Pomona Sprout for being in charge of the greenhouses which Dinah herself refused to enter.

— Rolanda Hooch for ignoring her concerns about the perils of outdated, unserviced broomsticks.

— Albus Dumbledore for his unwillingness to give her an advance on her salary.

— The two Ravenclaw girls for loitering in corridors — which was perhaps a little unfair, as they hadn't caused her any real harm.

— Filius Flitwick for catching her taking points from Ravenclaw without logical reason — which, of course, he'd received no explanation for.

— Argus Filch, his cat Mrs. Norris, and the five students who were injured in her state of frustration: reason being that they were in the way. — That, perhaps, wasn't very fair either, but it was Dinah's excuse for blaming them.

— Sybill Trelawney for predicting her death — as if anybody wanted to hear _that_ on a bad day.

— Rigel for sticking his nose where it didn't belong; no matter _how_ much she loved him.

— Silvanus Kettleburn for her son's confession regarding the study of eight-legged monsters of gigantic proportions and who could not only have eaten someone like Hagrid alive, but otherwise maimed a person for life. (That, of course, reminded her that she really needed to have a word with him.)

If she was quite honest, it seemed as though the only people who hadn't upset her that day were, surprisingly, the Weasley twins. Then again, she hadn't taught any third-years that day either.

With her mental list declared to herself, she rose from her seat and approached the current object of her distaste.

"Silvanus, a word with you?" she questioned, threateningly, and the ageing man shrank back in fright, as her dark eyes locked on his usually playful brown ones.

The poor man couldn't move; so frozen with fear at the tiny woman standing before him. She had always intimidated him, even as a student, and he had once attempted to hide behind a quintaped when she, at fourteen, looked at him dangerously, daring him to offer an explanation as to why he would choose a carnivorous beast for his students to study; especially for the first lesson of the new school year.

She had also, at the time, been very pregnant and more irritable than usual, particularly when the aforementioned quintaped was more than content to go for her, as though it somehow knew there was fresh meat inside her to satisfy its insatiable appetite. (What was a quintaped anyway? — An acromantula that had been in a bad accident?)

"D-D-D-Dinah," he stammered. "H-How very n-n-nice to s-s-s-see y-you—" he trailed off, no longer able to control himself.

"Are you, perchance, related to Quirinus?" she asked, her tone rife with cynicism. Unable to speak, however, he merely shook his head. "Then stop stammering. I've a bone to pick with you."

Naturally, she had caught the attention of the surrounding teachers, and the students, though attempting to talk amongst themselves were still talking about her.

"What is this fascination you appear to have with classification-five creatures, Silvanus? As I understand it, you plan to teach your third-year students about acromantulas in the morning. Do you neglect the fact that several students are likely to _conveniently_ go missing before half-past ten or am I missing something?" When the wizard remained silent, head bowed, she spoke again, indicating his lack of upper-body limbs. "To what did you happen to lose that arm, Professor?"

The man didn't answer, merely shuffled out of his chair, and exited through the door situated a few feet away, his wooden leg making more than enough noise to attract attention at his recent leave.

"Well, far be it from me to question the teaching methods of another," she said, in such a quiet voice that it could be heard only by the surrounding teachers. "Go on, Kettleburn. Clop off," and, with a roll of her eyes, she returned to her seat… exceptionally painfully.

* * *

"Mr. Malfoy, may I speak with you?" the Head of Slytherin queried, standing by the portrait hole.

"Of course, Professor," the blond replied, surprisingly respectfully, as he joined her in a secluded corner of the Common Room.

"Mr. Malfoy, I understand that during your flying lesson this morning, you were in the air with another student's property and with neither permission to be there nor supervision."

"Potter started it," the child argued.

' _Using another student as a scapegoat_ ,' she thought. "I care little for who may or may not have _started_ it, Mr. Malfoy. What were you doing with property that is not your own?"

"I was just having a look."

"I hardly think anyone needs to be fifty feet in the air to examine the appearance of a Remembrall." The boy said nothing, but his face contorted into an expression of masked hatred for the woman before him. "You disobeyed Madam Hooch, did you not?"

"If Potter hadn't—" he started, though she cut him off.

"Mr. Malfoy, don't instigate disputes and then act like the victim when you don't get what you want. That is not the way the world works, and it is not behaviour I'll tolerate." She sighed, before continuing. "I'll not tolerate theft, disobedience or disrespect from any student. What you did was dangerous and reflects poorly on yourself, your parents, your House, me and, indeed, the school itself. Ten points from Slytherin," she said with deliberation. The boy looked gobsmacked; as though he'd never been told off before.

"But, that's—"

"Life is not fair, Mr. Malfoy; you're right," the teacher said, her eyes boring straight into his own. "It is what it is. Get used to it."

That said, the woman left the darkened corner of the Common Room and stalked to the portrait hole, a Houseful of serpentine eyes glaring at her as she went.

"You wait until my Father hears about this!" the recently-admonished first-year shouted after her, but she'd already left.

* * *

Slamming the door to her quarters with an almighty thud, Dinah leaned against it, sighing heavily.

That had, most certainly, not been the best day she'd ever spent at Hogwarts the last two decades, but, to be fair, it probably hadn't been the worst either.

Rather pitifully, the woman turned around and walked in a zombie-like fashion to her bedroom.

With a landing considerably softer than she'd previously experienced that day, she plonked herself down on the edge of her bed. She scarcely had the energy to express pain at this point; barely enough, in fact, to remove her shoes and remove the silver dove from her hair, which she placed very carefully on her bedside cabinet.

"I hate people," she admitted to no one in particular. "I hate people, I hate broomsticks, I hate bowtruckles and I hate mushrooms."

Standing up, she, somewhat frustrated, walked to the wardrobe. "I hate me," and with a frustrated kick to the furniture, her eyes watered for the second time that day; this time accompanied by sobs. "I'm so sorry, Silvanus. You didn't deserve that."

Entering the bathroom, she stood at the mirror. "Why are you crying?" she admonished herself. "You didn't get your way! You're throwing a temper tantrum, you spoiled brat!"

If anyone could hear her screaming at herself, they might scarcely have believed she was the same woman that usually seemed rather calm and collected. Truth be told, they'd probably declare her deranged and have her committed.

The words she repeated before the mirror she'd heard so often as a child, in much the same tone of voice. Eventually she had learned to accept such words as gospel, for the word of Tobias Snape was sacred.


	10. The Lonely and the Lost

**Chapter Ten: The Lonely and the Lost**

The twenty-seventh had been and gone; simply another day to most. To the Potions Mistress, however, it was a day filled with pain, regret and loss, though there was precious little evidence of such feeling for the majority, other than that Professor Snape was exceptionally irritable that day — more so than usual.

It certainly hadn't gone unnoticed by her son, who, from two o'clock until twenty-past-three had been intermittently observing her.

She'd had a permanent scowl etched in her features and there was something rather unsettling about it for Rigel.

More snappy than usual, she hadn't wasted much time in giving the Weasley Twins a month's worth of detentions when she caught sight of them attempting to sprinkle bulbadox powder into Zoe Accrington's cauldron.

Neither had she spent a great deal of time tolerating students in general, in _or_ out of the classroom. It perhaps didn't help too much that Quirinus Quirrell was behaving oddly; stranger than he had at school, or even two years previously when he taught Muggle Studies. She didn't trust him; that much was evident, and precisely why he was wearing that infernal turban she didn't know. He certainly hadn't done so before this year and, yet, he seemed to have the ' _perfect_ ' excuse — a reward for his trouble with a zombie, or some other nonsense. Personally, Dinah could hardly imagine the quivering man who seemed so scared of everything and everyone possessing any possible demonstration of courage decent enough to enter battle with a flobberworm, let alone a fully-fledged zombie.

As the third-year Gryffindor-Slytherin class filed out, one student remained behind — the curly-haired Gryffindor Rigel Black. He was still looking rather intently at his mother, who, for the past ten minutes, had been seated at her desk grading scrolls of parchment.

"What is it, Rigel?" she asked, head still focused on the essay before her, quill scratching and scraping against the parchment so erratically it were enough to give herself a headache.

"Something's on your mind," Rigel said. He couldn't quite place it, of course, for as much as he loved his mother there was so much history about herself she refused to spill.

"Is there?" she asked, bluntly.

"Will you look at me?" he asked, his voice soft and pleading.

"Rigel, I am very busy. If your only concern is my pattern of thought then it is not your concern at all. Kindly leave."

She really wanted him to go? She had no interest in anyone offering her any sort of support; not even her own son?

"Always changing the subject," he said, quietly. "I love you, Mum. I just wish you'd let me show it," he added after a pause, before throwing his bag over his shoulder and exiting the classroom, subtly rubbing a hand across his face.

The other third-year class that followed that afternoon hadn't fared too well either, and three female students, two in Hufflepuff and one in Ravenclaw, had been left in tears by the ill-tempered Potions Mistress.

Oh, there was no mistake Dinah didn't like herself, but she had a tendency to take her self-hatred out on others when pushed too far.

While the class, of course, had no idea of how their teacher's mind worked and knew even less of her true character, there was no mistaking the somewhat-noticeable change to her persona that day.

Not one student said a further word to her after the Ravenclaw dared to challenge her; merely continued their class in complete silence and _left_ in complete silence.

The guilt Dinah felt for so many things came flooding out the moment she returned to her quarters. She had remained there from her final class until Monday morning, eating only a minimal amount left for her by a kind house-elf she had known since her teens.

"Missus Dinah is hurting," said the little house-elf, setting a tray on the coffee table in the living area.

"'Miss,'" Dinah corrected. "I am not married. Neither am I 'hurting.'"

"Missus Dinah misses Baby."

That was something Dinah hoped the student body didn't know. It was bad enough news had been circulating among the house-elves all those years ago, but she knew enough to know this little house-elf wasn't stupid. This little house-elf could hold her water and keep her promises.

"Jenny knows Baby is safe and well," the house-elf said, giving Dinah what she herself hoped was a comforting, if lop-sided, smile.

"You can't possibly know," Dinah almost spat, her efforts to remain composed becoming strained. "Seventeen years, Jenny. Seventeen years I've lived not knowing. Whether he's dead or alive doesn't matter. He isn't mine. He can _never_ be mine. He's not Vega, he's not Little Sirius; he's not mine."

"Your baby, Missus Dinah," Jenny said, looking to the forlorn witch, who was facing the wall, forehead and hands grazing the cold stone. "Always."

Dinah whirled around in frustration, tears meeting her eyes. "Do you know how that feels, Jenny? To have four children and lose every last one of them?"

"Not four, Missus Dinah," Jenny said, a faint glimmer of hope in her large round eyes. "Baby is alive, Missus. And Master Rigel. Missus Dinah has Master Rigel."

" _Four_ ," Dinah corrected. " _Snatched_. _Stillborn_. _Drowned_. _Neglected_."

Realisation hit her at the utterance of the last; pure, unadulterated loathing in her tone of voice — admittance of her own misdeeds. She had neglected Rigel the way she watched the Smiling Assassin take her baby. The way she felt such pain at spending so much time in labour for all her efforts to be so fruitless that she couldn't save her son. The way she allowed Rigel to take Vega to the riverside to play; for only one child, and one alone, to return.

She had neglected Rigel for so long now. It hurt to think she might even attempt to try and build a bridge across the deep ravine she herself created through grief.

All his attempts to come, and remain, close to his mother since the age of nine and she had rejected him at every turn; yet she continued to do it. She had done so earlier in the day. She realised he cared about her, but how could she possibly bare her soul to him? How could she allow herself to become wholly vulnerable? She hadn't even done that with Sirius. Just as she had never told Sirius of her abnormal relationship with her parents (though he, admittedly, hadn't had the best of upbringings himself; a fact he'd never hidden from anyone closest to him) she couldn't tell Rigel either, for it was easier to shut herself away from the pain than to have him stare her right in the face.

To think Dinah Snape was scared of her own son would be almost laughable to anyone at Hogwarts, but Rigel had a way of figuring certain people out. His mother may forever remain shrouded in a cloud of mystery but she knew he had some subconscious insight into her psyche and it scared her to death.

Whether it were possible for him to have inherited her skills with respect to the mind, the fact it was likely terrified Dinah. It was so much easier to push him away and avoid all contact, for her secrets could remain so. Suppressing her own secrets meant Rigel could never be hurt by the truth and it was so much more satisfying to Dinah that he may be able to remain ignorant and get on with his own life; no burdens resting upon his young shoulders.

Recognising her own feelings brought over a wave of undesired emotion and the broken woman crumbled; falling to her knees, heels of her hands attempting to flow the waterfalls streaming from her eyes.

She scarcely felt Jenny the House-Elf wrap her thin arms around her, offering her some source of comfort.

* * *

As September morphed into October, there was much excitement from the students of Hogwarts over Hallowe'en, or perhaps rather the Hallowe'en _f_ _east_. Any excuse, Dinah knew, for a school full of adolescents to act like a bunch of idiots (though perhaps no more than usual) simply due to an incomprehensible amount of sugar in their systems.

The Headmaster didn't help much either. In fact, Dinah might almost have sworn he made Hogwarts worse on purpose; particularly on Hallowe'en. Students running riot around the school from too many sweets and several teachers slightly tipsy or wholly inebriated from alcohol-induced confectionery; a fact evident enough in Dinah's view from her witness of Sybill Trelawney at the far end of the teachers' table, who was contentedly inhaling firewhiskey-flavoured fudge, coupled with a glass of sherry that seemed never to empty.

Several times Dinah had complained to Dumbledore about her colleague's drinking problem and, as expected, her concerns had fallen on deaf ears. After all, Sybill was completely harmless as a general rule, drunk _or_ sober, though was certainly more trouble than she was worth the moment she fell into a trance-like state. Dinah knew that all too well.

As the body of Hogwarts enjoyed themselves, save for the caretaker, Argus Filch, who, by his very nature, was deemed unpleasant, and Dinah herself, the woman in question surveyed the Great Hall. Normally, there'd not be anything to note of importance, but with the artefact from Gringotts' housed in a low-set chamber deep in the bowels of the castle Dinah had to increase her own vigilance.

Quirrell was late to the feast.

She'd hoped the man had an impeccable excuse for his tardiness when, and _if_ , he finally showed up to take his seat beside her. She didn't trust him; that was for sure. All things considered, could she really trust men in general? They'd never brought a great deal of positivity to her life (except, perhaps, Sirius) and whether she were in an intimate relationship with them or a business-like one, she didn't fully trust them. Quirrell was no exception.

All things considered, she did remember a comment during a third-year class earlier in the week in which her own son whispered to one Alicia Spinnet that he thought Professor Quirrell had shifty eyes. (Dinah had almost snorted with laughter at the time.)

"TROLL!" came a distressed cry, following the loud rumble of the heavy golden doors at the opposite end of the Great Hall. "IN THE DUNGEON! Troll in the dungeon!"

It were Quirrell himself, the very man Dinah had been thinking about not three seconds before.

The Hall fell so quiet at this exclamation that anyone could have heard a pin drop.

But it wasn't a _pin_ that dropped; it was Quirrell himself. "Thought you ought to know."

Splayed haphazardly on the stone floor in the centre of the Hall, the man fainted; the students around him entering full-blown panic mode and clambering over each other, screaming to get out and return to the safety of their Common Rooms.

"SILENCE!" Dumbledore bellowed, his usually-serene voice echoing off the walls. "Everyone will, please, not panic."

The students were silenced; that much was plain.

Dinah surveyed the Hall once more, her eyes falling finally on the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, who was so still he couldn't possibly be feigning a fainting attack… at least not until she noticed a single finger twitch.

Dinah felt a scowl overcome her features at the very sight.

"Prefects," Dumbledore continued, "will lead their Houses back to their dormitories. Teachers will follow me to the dungeons."

Apparently Dinah was the only one who seemed concerned by this. "Headmaster, the Slytherin and Hufflepuff Common Rooms are down there," she informed him, though her concerns were ignored. Dumbledore was already on his way toward the dungeons, the other House Heads in tow. Would that man never listen to her? "Slytherins! Hufflepuffs!" she called out. "Stay put. Do not move from here until I tell you. Colloportus!" she cried, wand aiming at the golden doors.

True enough that half the student body was now imprisoned in the Great Hall, at least they were less likely to get their heads bashed in by a troll.

Sparing a glance to the ' _Turbanator_ ' as a seventh-year Ravenclaw had referred to Professor Quirrell, Dinah made her way through the door behind her when the students had busied themselves with mindless chatter.

* * *

"Who decided you could live here anyway?" Dinah seethed, glaring at the door behind which a monstrous three-headed dog resided, growling, barking and slobbering.

Hobbling off to lean against the wall, she lifted the hem of her skirt to knee-level.

That was all she needed; a gleaming red bite mark running all the way down her leg, blood staining her white underwear. Still, at least, she wore black as a general rule, so it hopefully wouldn't be too noticeable, as she staggered (making her best attempt to appear unaffected by her recent injury) down to dungeon-level.

Her sinuses were assaulted tremendously the closer she got to her destination.

Eventually she found her way to a very dusty girls' bathroom, wherein stood three first-year Gryffindors and a collapsed mountain troll.

"Oh my goodness!" Professor McGonagall exclaimed, hand over her heart, and Dinah wondered precisely what had taken them all so long to arrive when not one of them had attempted to check the artefact's location, save for herself. "Explain yourselves, both of you!" This she said to the two boys, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley.

Both boys made a move to explain the circumstances of their decision to tackle the beast lying on the floor, though it were the bushy-haired girl who spoke with confidence.

"It's _my_ fault, Professor McGonagall," Hermione Granger stated, bluntly.

Dinah shot the girl a look. She knew she was lying. Her colleague, however, seemed to believe her, and Dinah was peeved that Dumbledore was choosing to remain silent.

"Miss Granger?" Minerva was shocked.

"I went looking for the troll." The girl sounded so confident, despite issuing such a blatant lie. "I read about them and thought I could handle it, but I was wrong. If Harry and Ron hadn't come and found me, I'd probably be dead."

' _Don't lie_ ,' Dinah thought. ' _It doesn't become you._ You _wouldn't be stupid enough to battle a troll by choice_.'

Minerva had plenty to say on the matter, though Dinah had tuned it out somewhat, for her focus had fallen on the suspicious gaze of Lily's son; green eyes looking to Dinah's own feet at the small puddle of blood which had already begun seeping through her clothes and staining the dusty floor.

Dinah took a small step forward, obscuring the ruby-coloured pool from view and daring Harry to say something. Instead, Lily's vivid green eyes met her own dark ones, giving her that same ' _I-don't-believe-you-Dinah_ ' look whenever she had confronted the Slytherin on her ignorance for her own child so many years earlier.

"As for you two gentlemen," Minerva said, exasperated, turning her attention to Potter and Weasley, "well I just hope you realise the seriousness of this situation. Not many first-years could take on a fully-grown mountain troll and live to tell the tale. Five points will be awarded to each of you." The Transfiguration Professor remained blissfully ignorant to the expression on her female colleague's face. "For sheer dumb luck," she added as an aside.

Dinah couldn't believe her colleague. First, Potter had been rewarded for disobedience by being given a place on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team and now he put himself, and others, in danger with his foolish impulse and had been rewarded for that too. Weasley had also been rewarded for the latter. The pair of them, _and_ Granger, might have been killed, and the girl's blatant lie did nothing to sway Professor Snape from her stance. Dumbledore was no help either. He had neither said nor done anything, merely witnessed the scene unfold and then abandoned the now-damaged bathroom, other teachers, bar herself and Quirrell, in tow.

"P-P-Perhaps you ought to go," Quirrell stammered to the Gryffindor trio who hadn't moved since the troll fell. "M-M-Might w-wake up," he added, with a nervous laugh.

Dinah turned her head to face her purple-turbaned colleague, the expression on her face a mixture of pure mistrust and wonder at how the man even worked at the school in the first place. Still, she supposed, that was Dumbledore's attempt at being clever, having denied a _sensible_ teacher filling the post since Dinah even started Hogwarts as a student twenty years earlier.

Though she said nothing, it was clear enough to Dinah that the man knew she could see right through him. His act of flinching as she moved forward to exit the bathroom more than gave away the truth. She didn't trust him and he knew it.

Dinah was followed out by the three young students, leaving Quirrell to clean up the mess she definitely had her suspicions about. She smirked in amusement as the troll roared from its belly-down position on the floor; almost certain it felt inherently displeased at being left with Quirrell of all people.

"I shall escort you to your Common Room," she said, whirling around, looking at the three young faces. Miss Granger looked rather uncomfortable, as though she felt guilty for her lie. In Dinah's mind, rightly so, but she knew children would lie about anything to get out of trouble, or, indeed, to get _other people_ out of trouble.

"She's limping," Potter whispered, though Dinah gave no indication she had heard him at all. They could say what they wanted about her; she honestly didn't care. "She left blood on the bathroom floor."

"Maybe she's—" Granger whispered back, trailing off, guiltily. There were some things that shouldn't have been spoken about and the girl was probably crossing the line there. Still, Dinah gave no indication she could hear them.

"What took her so long to get to the bathroom?" Weasley asked.

"Maybe she got bitten," Potter replied. "Remember that dog on the Third Floor? Whatever that dog's guarding, she's trying to get it."

The very idea was preposterous to Dinah, and she had to stifle her amusement at the children's idea of detective work regarding the mother of one of their friends. Clearly they weren't very good _listeners_ of the aforementioned friend; neither were they all that observant, regarding the lack of one member of teaching staff in the Great Hall. Still, they were only eleven and eleven-year-olds weren't, by nature, particularly observant.

A cackle of laughter sounded, and Dinah paused on the stairs, shut her eyes and gritted her teeth. Surely this wasn't happening now.

The resident poltergeist had taken it upon himself to fly through the wall, knocking the four of them to the ground. Dinah, most unfortunately, was now crushing three first-year Gryffindors at the bottom of a flight of stairs and drenching them in her own blood.

"Whiner Dinah! Whiner Dinah! Greasy Dungeon Bat!" he chanted. Did he have nothing better to do? No one else to annoy? He could have tried the Headmaster. At that moment in time he seemed like a good target. "Ooh, gonna cry are we, Whiner Dinah?"

"' _Whiner Dinah_?'" Weasley reiterated in such a manner that suggested it was a pretty pathetic nickname.

"Need a cleaning charm, Greaseball?" Peeves laughed, circling in the air.

Seeing a stone urn conveniently situated to her left, Dinah levitated the object high into the air and hurled it in the poltergeist's general direction, landing on his head. Her aim was so true she might just as well have been the fifth Marauder if they accepted females from Houses other than Gryffindor… and if they weren't bullies, of course…

"Good shot," Weasley praised, surprised. Dinah said nothing, though did feel slightly satisfied with herself.

" _Ouch_!" Peeves exclaimed. "That's not fair! Peeves wasn't ready! You're a slimy little Greaseball!"

"And you're bloody _pathetic_ ," she grumbled, before raising her voice. "Is that the _Baron_ I hear, Ghostie?" (She knew Peeves hated that nickname.) "I dare say I hear the distant rattle of metal chains."

That was enough to encourage his departure, as he fled back through the wall, hurling the urn at Dinah, who was successful in halting the object in mid-air and returning it to its pedestal.

* * *

Having returned the three Gryffindors to their Common Room, and having something of an unwarranted verbal battle with the Fat Lady, the hand-painted guardian of the aforementioned location, Dinah made her way to the Fifth Floor.

She couldn't pay too much attention to her leg at the moment, for she had to be present for patrolling duties. Of course, she rather hoped Dumbledore might at least have the decency to check the Great Hall and release the yellow and green prisoners she had locked in there earlier. (Though she was injured by a Grecian hound, at least there were no dead bodies lying in corridors, so that was something of a blessing.)

As darkness drew in, Dinah uttered an almost-silent "Lumos," the tip of her wand creating a pulsating, almost-therapeutic white orb of light.

Ever vigilant, she held her wand aloft and strolled down the corridors, more than prepared to catch students out of bed after hours. She knew from a decade of experience that Gryffindors (especially) had a tendency on Hallowe'en to try and sneak down to the kitchens for a midnight feast.

A clanging soon caught her attention, and she strode, still limping, to a door at the end of the corridor.

Throwing the door open, she was met once more by Peeves who appeared to be playing Quidditch by himself with a rubbish bin.

"I wish I knew a taxidermist," Dinah drawled, her northern dialect making itself more than apparent in her ire. "I'd 'ave ya stuffed. Gerrout of 'ere. Clear off!"

Strangely, the mischievous spirit appeared to listen to her for once, though not before blowing a raspberry and waving his hands in a gesture of mockery.

When all was silent, Dinah surveyed the disused classroom.

If she were honest with herself, she couldn't recall any moment in time when she'd actually entered it. She would surely have remembered if she'd attended or taught any classes there.

Despite its expectedly-bare state, there was something at the far end of the classroom she had overlooked at first glance; a tall, wide, suspended piece of cloth if she wasn't much mistaken. Was this another of Albus Dumbledore's _brilliant_ ideas?

Slowly, and with growing curiosity, she approached the fabric and reached out her free hand pulling it away from the surface it was covering with an almighty yank.

Anticlimactically, Dinah frustratedly dropped the black curtain on the floor. It was a mirror and she hated mirrors.

Sighing wearily, she returned her wand to her robes and seized the cloth with both hands.

Before she could even attempt to cover the mirror, her eyes caught sight of Sirius standing beside her, and the cloth fell from her tightly-clenched fists once more.

In shock, she took a step back and frantically searched the area around her, but she remained the solitary inhabitant of the room. Sirius wasn't there.

As she returned her gaze to the mirror, she noticed he was still standing there, his cheeky smile plastered across his face. He slowly moved forwards, standing behind her, and snaking his hands around her waist, crossing over her swollen belly.

One look at that area of her body and she knew in an instant this was little more than a dream. She wasn't pregnant. She _had_ been when he'd been sent to Azkaban, but the face staring back at her now had aged somewhat. There was nothing undesirable about the expression on his face; nothing to suggest he'd been invaded by dementors for a decade. This was a Sirius that never went to Azkaban. This was a Sirius who had received justice; a Sirius she had spent the last ten years with — longer even. It was the same Sirius she learned to love fourteen years previously.

Mirror-Sirius bent down to plant a sweet kiss on her right cheek, and Dinah could have sworn she felt his moustache tickle her. For the first time in four years, she laughed. Only slightly, but it were a _genuine_ laugh nonetheless, and she raised her left hand to brush his affection away, but, of course, that wasn't Sirius' kiss at all. Her hand was cold and wet.

' _Will I never stop crying_?' she asked herself, as she hastily removed evidence of her distress, though still witnessing her beloved's tenderness through the falsity of the looking glass.

Figures began to appear alongside her mirror-image. Rigel stood to her left-hand side, looking no different than he had done at the feast.

To her right stood a girl, perhaps eleven years old, with long, thick locks of ebony hair and the sweetest smile on her face.

A sob erupted from her person, as Mirror-Sirius kissed the top of her head and took her hands in his own.

"Vega," she wept, and the girl in the mirror leaned into her, linking her arm.

A boy of about nine years appeared in front of her, every bit the same as his father. That was Sirius Junior — her _lost_ boy; the boy who was never got to live a life.

One by one, different-sized shadows appeared on the scene, remaining far off in the distance. For all Dinah knew they were in the back of the classroom, but the reality was that she was all alone and she knew that. She could only speculate that these shadows should have been her children.

A man-sized shadow appeared to the side of Mirror-Sirius, but she didn't know who that could possibly be, unless Baby had discovered a way to torment her with his own presence.

The figures of James, Remus, Lily and even Peter appeared on the scene.

While it was true she didn't think too highly of James or Peter (and perhaps she wasn't particularly fond of Remus either) she still saw them all together; the way they were before everything went pear-shaped.

James and Lily stood with Harry and various other, smaller shadows; Harry's brothers and sisters.

"Why do you torture me?" Dinah cried, collapsing before the mirror. "Why?"

* * *

One more year in the same wretched cell and the dishevelled man, covered in dirt, with matted, straggly hair and his beard coarse and itchy, Sirius Black looked to the only source of light; the moon casting a barred shadow on the cold, damp floor.

Ten years he had lost in here.

Why he had followed the rat, he no longer knew. His fiancée told him not to. Just _once_ he probably should have listened. He could be lying on a nice bouncy mattress with fluffy feathered pillows now; his now-wife by his side. She could be giving him the best birthday present of all if he'd listened to her to start with, but he hadn't.

Of course, she hadn't put in enough effort. She hadn't fought hard enough to stop him from doing anything stupid, but would he have listened to her even if she had? Probably not. After all, he was a man. A very foolish man. A 'dunderhead,' she would have said, but he was hers and Sirius knew she'd not have it any other way.

So long he had lived without her, and so long without his children. They could have three happy, healthy children now; maybe more, but no. While she was stuck in a job she held no particular fondness for, he was imprisoned in middle of the North Sea.

It would be no easy task to abandon this place. Hell on Earth, Sirius might have called it, but he'd be damned if he didn't escape for his family, his godson and his friends. James and Lily were dead, a fact that so often depressed him, as though Azkaban itself wasn't enough to ruin a man's mental state, but he couldn't let Wormtail get off Scot-free. It was Peter that betrayed them; sold them to Voldemort. He should be brought to justice; it's what James and Lily deserved.

But what of _her_ role? Had _she_ not informed Voldemort of the Prophecy? After all, she was not so innocent herself in all this mess. While she may never have willingly taken the Dark Mark as a token of her servitude to the mass murderer, it was _her_ fault he went after James, Lily and Harry in the first place.

The pain he felt for the loss of his friends, and even revenge he'd willingly take against Wormtail, the man lifted his head from his knees.

Furiously, he wiped the flowing tears from his reddened, anguish-ridden face on his ragged prisoner's robe, got to his feet and threw himself against the small barred hole in the wall, which was intended to be a window, and cried out into the night.

"Damn you, Dinah!"


End file.
